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Mona Darrington stared mutely for some time at the ronryan character who had burst into the room to announce that there were not alot of writers here.
She wondered who he was talking to.
Maybe there are writers behind that wall over there.
But what are they writing?
Am I in a story?
But I am real...I can see my something draped around my exposure and my feet beneath it.
I can't be a fictional character in a story..
I can't be.
I'm much too real for that.
Mona Darrington was silent for a while.
She stared at the wall opposite and wondered how she might get closer to it, maybe look through it to see the writers writing the story of her getting closer to the wall to maybe look through it and see the writers writing the story of her getting closer to the wall and maybe looking through it.
Maybe one of the writers is cute, she heard herself thinking, almost independently of her will.
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a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear
it make you sick.
-kamau brathwaite
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