There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
Ernest Hemingway
“Soon all this will be no more, and all shall be as it should.”
“Brother, I don’t understand. You should rest your voice.”
“I will not rest—not now, not ever,” I said through convulsive wheezing.
“Oh, Emmanuel. Why do you always have to be so difficult? Why do you always have to be so perfect?”
“Elon, I’m not perfect—I’m human just as you are.”
“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t seem like that,” said Elon, standing up from his chair beside my bed. “You’ve always been so kind, and life has always been clear for you. Look at me—I’m a mess. A stinking mess. Years spent as an accountant, working through the ranks, trying to do well to eventually become CFO—and then it all falls apart. That sonofabitch Judas. He’s always, always impressing everybody with his charm and handsomeness. But he doesn’t fool me for a minute. I know he’s a liar and a cheat! I just couldn’t take his awful presence any longer—I swear he makes my skin crawl. He kept calling me weak and cowardly—so I silenced him with my fists.”
“Now, now,” I said through a cough, “that doesn’t make you bad. But neither do his actions justify your response. Remember, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
