A satirical novel about a London lad in serialised form.
With the spare change in my trousers, I made a copy of Emily’s letter. One day I hope to publish “The Collected Correspondence of Thaddeus Littleman.”
Would such an audience exist for innocent and pretentious musings? Who would ever purchase such poppycock?
The Waterford Library was a bright oasis — inside — with new, earth-toned rugs, fresh paint, almost mauve, with comfy, cushioned chairs for reading by the windows — with four orange chairs around a circular table, laminated and clean. I’m writing now in the Study Room. For writing, sometimes I love sound — like the bustle of a London coffee house — and other times, like now, I want to be sealed away from the world and pain.
It’s sound proof, in here. I hear my thoughts reverberate on the narrow walls, like a being living confined to a coffin. Or a monk in a dorm, copying the Word for readers that will one day exist, long after death; a light in the darkness; a quill in hand, hands stained in ink, creating in long hand on dried, stretched lamb’s skin what will eventually be called Times New Roman. The candle burning — the light, ambient enough, the wax collecting like a queer stalagmite on the writing table.
A medieval link to the modern world. Art in Darkness. Oxygen in a sea of brainless sea anemones — minus the colors vibrant.
The outside of the Waterford Library was a different story — it was, perhaps, the only place alive in a strip mall dead or near-death stores — including a market that had once been called “Murphy’s.” It would have been brilliant to have a market for fresh produce so close!
