"I’m supposed to write something just so revelatory and legendary and literarily touched that everyone goes ‘Wow she’s only twenty-seven?’ and then you reap these awfully grand rewards riding on my coattails and I do this all like in the next week before I become so irrelevant that they are like, ‘Lux who?’ and everyone just gets truly enriched, rich off all my writing genius, my creative boundary-stretching, draping on me extravagant compliments and all that good, solid, untrue, disingenuous shit, remember?", I slur on longwindedly, tauntingly, with feigned glorification, in a rhetorical-sounding, biting little question, challenging him to provide some kind of an adequate counterargument.
He cannot.
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