My Possessions, with their Luster, are organized onto my Bookshelves, which themselves are Lustrous; with Cans, emptied of their Contents, without their Labels, their Skin possessing Ribs and Polish, which I wish was of a Golden Glow; with my Rings, those of Mexican Descent and great Age, for I came to posess them in my fifth Year; with Photographs of pleasing Jewelry, taken from my many, shiny-Paged Magazines, pasted to Boards and propped up so that I may gaze upon them; with a Spoon, which my dearest Grandmother gave to my Dam and Sire upon their Marriage; with Silver that, though my Mother despises its appearance, shares its Space with my Abundance of Coins of the Nickel and Copper Varieties, all of them having been Boiled and Polished, so that they may be deeply Lustrous, in a Process which took me much Effort, which I succeeded in after many Trials, most of which tooka Process consisting of...
(This could go on for days.)
As a strong proponent of the whole "simple and clear" writing style used by Hemingway, Vonnegut, Golding, Heller, McCarthy, Thompson, and pretty much anybody else of worth in the past seventy-five years, I hereby propose that Daniel Defoe and other writers of the Early Modern English style go fuck themselves. Way to completely lose the point in telling a story, guys. Oi.
I think I may have to go read some Hemingway now just to detox. Jesus.
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