"I hope you never get over it," he said. It was C.C. He was speaking of my broken heart. "It is good for me. The writing is great. The only good writing is that which is written from longing and desire. Good writers are always trying to win someone's attention, someone's love. You can't write when you are happy. What would be the point? No, art comes from the desire to win a lover's affection."
He was right, of course. I had missed one girl so badly it was almost fatal, and all I could think to do was spin a magic spell, to get the words just right so as to cast an enchantment over her like a fine net.
It didn't work, of course. For me, I mean. She joined a sorority and made new friends. She is now fashion editor for the Great American News Network. Or something of the sort. I can't really name it here.
Oh. . . she did tell me I was a wonderful writer, though. Fat lot of good.
When I die, collect my shit, Jackson. There are plenty of amusing snippets. Perhaps you can make me the snippet saint of unpublished writers. I'm pretty sure, though, that there is stiff competition.
Tonight the knee grows stiff, the music sad. I'll move to Ireland when I retire, I think. Surely I will find a sad happiness there.
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