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I Shall Be Lazy and Post Excerpts. Page #1

November 5, 2006

Prelude: On the Beginning, and Mixed Lives.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Not bad. Well now, what shall I write today? An odd dream I had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I believe I’ve had that dream running for a month or so now. Recurrent, and oddly sensible (is that a word?), It makes sense, I mean. No flying around in the clouds without pants on and the crows laughing uncontrollably. What was it about? Nothing out of the ordinary. Hardly normal, yet so completely and astoundingly… normal.

There was a man, you see, living his life.

That is all.

The first night, he was waking up from bed. Well technically it was a bench. In a park. And a very lovely park it was too, judging from the faint smile he wore as he awoke to the sound of chirping birds and the peaceful sussurus of the gently swaying trees. The selfsame smile that quite quickly faded as he sat up and noticed the white spot of birdie poo on his patched trousers. He sighed audibly and sent a wistful glance at the old sheet of newspaper which was supposed to have protected him from such mishaps. It was lying most woefully on the ground, not that far off from the bench. There was bird poo on it too.

This man had a reasonably well made, though slightly shabby coat, along with an obviously good scarf, a pretty nice shirt under the coat which would have most certainly bore a designer label at its chest pocket if it wasn’t being hidden by the coat. His painted trousers were equally high class. He fished about in his pockets for a moment and withdrew a pair of dark rimmed glasses. Beside him on the bench he picked up the hat which he had been using as an uncomfortable pillow, and pulled out the newspaper stuffing he had put inside to make it somewhat more uncomfortable. He put the hat, the kind one would not be surprised to see on the head of a detective in a dark noir investigate movie, and put on his glasses.

In short, this man did not look the kind who was used to sleeping in the cruel outdoors of a modern metropolitan park. As if to prove the matter, he dragged out a silver cigar case from the inside of his well made coat, and opening it, removed a long black cigar and a silver cigar cutter.

He smoothly decapitated the cigar with the ease of a smooth cigar decapitator.

With the cigar between his teeth he replaced the cigar cutter, closed the case, and returned it to his coat pocket. From the same pocket he took out a gold plated and mahogany cigar lighter and lit his cigar with ease, puffing a few clouds of thick smoke into the air as a cyclist whizzed by with a look of disapproving disgust. He merely chuckled, and pondered the dream he had. In that dream he was a writer, a bestselling one at that. One of those narcissists in denial writing their deepest fantasies that for some reason resonate well enough with the ignorant masses to sell, one, two million copies or something – enough, at any rate, to make those weekly newspaper top ten lists, most preferably number one, which aggravates the cycle due to the extra publicity.

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