He didn’t think he would survive. How could he? He was lost in a strange land; his belongings buried under a ton of sand. His throat burned and ached. His lungs felt ready to burst with sand. Thinking hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.
He was going to die.
A few months ago I cleaned up the files in my computer. During the process, I peeked at my files of unfinished novels. There are some books I’ve been writing bit by bit for 5 or more years. I read some of them. They were painful to read.
I normally just leave it at that, but this time I was curious about them. They were good ideas, just executed poorly. How did such great ideas transition into horrible writing?
If he had been born two hundred and thirty-odd years ago,
He would not have been considered a man--
A favorite servant, perhaps—and his intelligence
Would have been dismissed as mere mimicry.
Words = Life
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