Where is the writer with hands that have pruned from the perpetual clutch of their poisoned drink? Or the red-eyed literary monster who tortures their neighbor through paper thin walls with ear piercing clicks and clacks at every waking minute of their chic and miserable life, pounding their recently rescued and beat-up typing machine with a dirty needle dangling from their veinless arms and neck?
A great new magazine called “Tuck” published this opinion piece for me this morning! Just hit the link and the rest is there.
Photo by Davidson Luna