Writers Room

They forced 

me somewhat-

it was a 

Sunday, normally 

Sundays require 

little energy on

my behalf, but 

this, this was

sadly an exception. 

I was thrown into 

a room, about 

the size of your

average prison cell 

and I was left there,

forced to speak or ‘network’ 

with ‘fellow’ artists-

they were speaking 

as I found my

way in, not stopping 

to collect some sort

of greeting. 

I made my way

to the closest corner

and stood there awhile. 

The thing with 

talking is, none of it

ever sticks

once you’ve spluttered 

it all out; people 

relish the silence 

more than the

sound of another. 

So I breathed in,


that’s, that’s when

the man,

the man of about

forty, stopped at

my corner and

chuckled to himself;

the laughter of

a stranger

is the cruelest 

sound one can hear. 

So that’s, that’s when

I told the man,

told him right 

to his face-


and laughter began

to fill the entire room. 

The laugher of one 

and the laughter of

twelve, sounds

pretty much the same. 


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