How I am, I love to write, hate to read, just the way it is
So much suffering trying to find perfection that I no longer care if someone sees me to be wrong, all they will ever be is a simple suggestion
No worry no more, can’t afford it, just me and my brand new head, personality no longer relatively dead
But this reading thing, why is it I hate it so much, many a plaudited book I have no interest at all in picking up
Even used the Harry Potter franchise for a door-stopper once, sorry Rowling but I ain’t joking, just that right this minute I can’t quite see it
I admit I may be rather pretentious, and if I ever find out someone uses my book like that I’ll be… actually I’ll be rather impressed, it still made it inside their door, ready to make its entrance inside their head at one time or other, come back for more, always and forever in that room, even if whenever they look at it the thought of reading it engulfs them in gloom

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