Post something from a writer

Ohh. I see, or rather didn't. I read it as 'how i waste my time' -_-

Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian

The run on sentence gave it away but I had to google it just to make sure

My nigga EZra£

Marcel Proust.

Thomas Pynchon

>. He liked the color of the
streetlamps and the light that spilled over the fronts of the houses. The shadows that moved
as he moved. The ashen, sooty dawns. The men of few words who gathered in the pub,
where he became a regular. The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked
away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was
possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied
to everything, more or less.

No. But interesting guess.