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shiny objects

Wednesday, February 25, 2004


I have a hundred-thousand words at my command, and not a single thing to write tonight. What good is my arsenal? For what purpose have I stockpiled these volatile verbs, these impious, gleaming adjectives? Why have I collected numberless fragments of wry imagery, hyperbole, irony, and parallel structure?

Like a boy with his new rifle, I take shots at birds and coke cans, hapless things, obscenely annihilating them to no useful consequence.


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