How magnificent it must be to be written about.
Your name replaced by descriptions of the way your pink sumptuous smile looked in the shoddy light of your living room last night.
The people read his paper for entertainment.
So could you call it progress?
Possibly character development.
To read about yourself flourishing into the miscreant you were always destined to be.
How engrossing it must be to gradually watch that pink sumptuous smile turn into nothing but a starless hole.
The critics are bored and dehydrated. On their hands and knees, they beg him to compose more.
That's why he stays in the living room and stares at me.
He waits for me to make one wrong move.
But there is no more life in this room.
Only a pen and a subject.