A potential prologue to a book you will never write can only be read by people fluent in the English language. As for the England Languid, which is what you impulsively wanted to name your pastoral novel, would fall off not the tip of your tongue, but the tip of your tongue would fall off—this is called leprosy.
Which is how you ended up in the hospital, or, because we are in France right now, hôpital; that any writer would want to venture an English novel, yet buy the wrong plane ticket and fly to de Gaulle, where less than 24 hours upon landing, would lose the tip of his finger inside his palm during a suggestive pantomime, is not only inappropriate, but fictional.
Which is how we end up here, or, because you are at a computer right now, 0110100001101; that any writer would want to venture a short story, yet stop short with some meditation on a potential prologue for an improbable book, where in less time than it takes to read this would get tired, is not only appropriate, but factual.
A potential prologue to a text I may never write can only be read by people fluent in the English language. As for the England Languid, which is what I impulsively wanted to name my pastoral novel, would fall off not the tip of my tongue, but the tip of my tongue would fall off—dith ith called a lithp.
Jimmy Chen works at a large institution where he enjoys writing. He can be found online at jimmychenchen.com.
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