It was a dark and stormy night and the sheets of rain fell down on the town as I made my way to the mailbox with a clutch of letters in my hand. I had finished my philosophical work and was posting it to various interested people.
‘The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways, the point, however, is to change it,’ I began boldly in my opening statement. I did not want to be one with a paucity of ideas and an undue reverence for source material, or a distinct feeling of creative exhaustion. But, still, as I walked down the hill I had a sinking feeling that everything I wrote had all been said before. Partly because most of my philosophy was copied from other people’s books, but, still….
I was raised by wolves on the edge of the forest before becoming a humble woodcutter who herds sheep. At least that’s how I remember it since I got my Poetic License.
xenagoguevicene 