The Writer

One man wrote about the river in his writers crib. He reflected on the years. Sometimes almostseeing his face in the waters if not, at his window or in the reflection of his writer’s glasses.

It was a log cabin, made of newly chopped wood. He went there to write for a month. Living on tacos, sheery and Samba music.

He worked at a factory and saved his money in a current account. He was fed up of the homogenous replicas, the drones at work and the magazine copies at the printing press where he worked. He tacked the magazines categories on the wall in his immaculate log cabin. To write of his own life in those terms. He was a horizon individual a broadview.

He was an amnesiac, he once went to war and he recalled a pastlife in a flashback whilst at war, the soldier was his brother.


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