How To Put A Garmet Rack In A Suit Case

The writer who was not a mother fucker

Everything was on the polished mahogany panel of the desk, so it should be like. The sharpened pencils, the clamp apparatus of the holes, the neatly stacked sheets of copy paper, the Zigarettenpackung.Wenn he had the look left, glide across the screen of the laptop, he looked down at the busy square outside the nursing home. A recyclable island was there. An old, bent man threw a beer bottle.
You "to an artist."
He acted as if he had not heard those four words. He moved the ashtray approach, a cigarette lit on fire and inhaled.
You're a parasite. A nothing had thou art "
The old man disposed of his bottles and returned to the nursing home. His upper body was bent forward so that it was feared that his hat would fall to him at any moment from his head. Now he almost joined together with the red-faced woman who always picked up dead leaves from the ground.
you're a sausage. A very little pain. Empty and lazy. Writing? Write what you want? First go to work was. Then you can write. Artists, pah. Go to work. And I do not lie on the bag. "
He grimaced, and made a slight gesture, as would apply it to ward off a rotten fish. He inhaled and stared at the screen with the stylized sheet of paper. It was empty. As it was empty yesterday, a week ago, and a month ago, when he named his secure job flung and had sat down to write his novel at last. The title was clear for years: the seven bridges to nowhere.
"For three years you parasitizes with me! Look at your brother. The works part. And you? A little bit here and a little work there. Then you throw the thing again. You have no bite. You will become a Sandler. Like your father. The writing is frozen in the suffix But. Ha. Writing. The Lord wants to write. First you need to bite something. Then one can write. Get a job! "
He lighted a second cigarette. He stared at the recycling Island. Dusk fell. The glow of the cigarette holder danced outside the window.
When the voice came again, he lost his temper and shouted:
"Shut your damn finally Schandmaul, mother! Keep your damn mouth! Or I beat them into you! "
He slammed his fist on his desk mahogany board, breathing heavily and eventually began to sob. It had always been, its parents, especially since she had died 10 years ago.

Fin