And that's the difference, I can't write for shit.
SK writes about monsters, I live with them, and they planned my life for me.
Wells wrote about being invisible and travelling to the future, of being the one-eyed man seen (yes, a pun) as a dangerous lunatic.
Kafka wrote bizarre scenarios that I was allocated.
Hank sought surcease in being a pig, that's how he'd write and I won't. I shan't be that and blame it on anyone else.
Edgar was just Edgar, but "nemo me impune laccesit" is not my cup of tea.
JRR showed me roads to everywhere as a strategy to survive.
Barker has the animal passion and the magic of laughing children.
Holland, Schama, Kee and Horne put meat on the dry bones of history.
Bécquer showed me how to feel proud of my weakness.
Clarín, that the hurts of my country did not change that much, and that a life does get spent loving at a distance.
Of Mario, I learned strategy and tactics. With as much result as for him. My spring also has a broken corner.
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