When you walk the back streets, expect to step into a roomful of backbiters. No mirrors - all avoiding their guilty reflections - who snatched the lyrics? Some hug the walls, faces like irregular patchwork, stitched together by apprentices; others browned with macaroon bar skin; some just pram-free but learning the trade as fast as hot laxative. Such a relief to escape with my minor blemishes intact and a wallet full of memory sticks. Without them, I'd be like a bride without a trousseau, a satanic figure perched on the Isle of May without a blue stane to chuck at Crail kirk. The words aren't just a livelihood. They're also an identity, a contact with the parallel country you call home.
Touchkeys, black cables and all ports are on call. A graphic pad and a source of energy are essential tech. I broke the tender chains so many years ago and stepped, rock by rock, into a waiting body double. Luckily, he was exactly my size and had been hanging around for half a century on some hammocking porch waiting for me to swing by.
But punching out the nicknames, the word-topiary, the hound's-tooth paragraphs are fine until someone throws a contract across the table. Merc-masters, overdogs and muscular stand-ins barricade the doors and apply the mind-screws and stubs of legal documents. And all I want to do is write and live.
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