Cascades of smoke, empty beer bottles a mile wide, always and forever with Sherlock Holmes on the telly, a fan of dear old Watson, an enviable underdog
A sleight of hand about to suddenly blossom
No joke, he was in it for the long haul, prepared to garner inspiration left, right and centre, manage to out-manoeuvre, wittingly outclass them all
This would take a fair deal of grit, grit right up there inside of him, a lacklustre day shouldn’t mean an inability, an excuse for him not to play with words, NOT ONE BIT
He would party hard when needs be, for inspiration only, then sit it out, write hard
No, really, he needed to get out and about, meet the right kind of people, dig his feet deep as hell in the literary sand, take a hand when the correct one comes along, always able to decipher between what is right and what is wrong

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