Waxing poetic with a precipitating thesis in mind: Can you dig it, suckah? If you dug it, what'd you unearth? This may be about a hardheaded writer, a stubborn fellow who believes perfection through script can be reached. A state of paradise through the divine use of craft which transcends the real world for the middle world, similar to the Middle Kingdom's premises. Or this might've been about the stories of the Bible and why they aren't as truthful as most religious people think. Wheat fields in the afterlife, heaven in all its glory - these could be empty promises. Dirt awaits us, the flame flickers then dies, the doctrine is parallel, language is godlike yet it's not God's word. The holiest books of the ages are books, preserved fossils, tablets of subjective truths.
I feel like your writer's voice is confident and you dislike telling a straight up story. You seem to only enjoy working in clockwork illusion, a watchmaker who details every dial with something new to be chimed in our minds as the moments slick by. There's life in it, there's firelight, but there's also less honesty than other writers. This is not to say that it's a flaw: this is only my observation about it. The way you write is fragmentary, like you're sewing together abstract views with two crayons. One crayon is a solid color, visible on every spectrum. The other crayon a gray one that produces venerated hues prompted by your abstract views. Tie this all together with a bow: a crisp flow, consistent set ups, and a degree of imaginative finality. Skullkid, in a way, is you. He's cerebral, he's got his way of going about things, he writes elegantly. Essentially, he's a brainchild with lodestones instead of kidney stones. He almost lives in a Lothlorien forest type of setting where grandiose prevails, although it's more organic than just flights of fancy.
bending over paperbacks with delicate spines
^I loved the flipped meanings in this line.
rainwater in harvest season, tears in a coffin
^Condensed are the deadbeat dads, leaving their sons heads to roll down the prairie hills.
I also suspect you and Methodikal are half synthesized with one another. He also cites the many scents of tree bark throughout his writing. A fascination with smell - nothing wrong with that. It conjures up something under the reader's nostrils, a welcomed spice fragrance, even if it's sometimes a little bitter. Very Frenchman-like. Very Frenchman-like, indeed.
Keep doing you
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