Evidently Edgar feels he’s been patient long enough, and has spouted off in unearthly tones his disapproval of my lack of order and sense of time.
He does not like it at all that I have not really written one creative word while I have several stories dormant inside this beige box upon a spinning disk that I access daily for other things.
Evil little know-it-all mustachioed dead poet. I hate him; he’s right.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology