There's a lift in your step as you return to the city streets. You try to decide what you want to do this evening in light of this encounter with the nation's foremost wordsmiths:
Brute shrinks in the corner of your room as you launch into a flurry of scribbling with paper and ink. The prospect of recognition on a timeless scale has lit a fire under you hotter than most any you've experienced before. [+Bile]
In practice, you pass out before forty-five minutes go by, cuddled in a pile of crumpled first stanzas and epigrams. Perhaps it'll take more than a night to realize this life-goal.
The World Turns