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The Glass House

  It had been nearly a decade since The Book had been published. I won’t reference the title because there is a good chance you have read it, and whether you loved it or hated it, I find that once people learn I am the author of The Book they can’t see past that. I cease to exist as an autonomous individual and instead become a living book review forum where they project all their criticisms like word vomit. While The Book was financially lucrative enough, even good money dries up in time, and fans and publishers alike were past the point of agitation with my lack of pages. I was fading into obscurity, yet I could not seem to find even an ounce of inspiration. This is why I said yes to the ounce of mushrooms offered to me by a pretentious hipster at a mutual friend’s house party. If inspiration wouldn’t   come to me naturally, I figured I could force it with the help of hallucinogenic drugs. Procuring the drugs would not be enough by itself. I had tried to jump start the creative drive

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