He sits at his typewriter clanking away.
Clanking for readers,
Clanking to sell.
Cash for Clankers.
What do they pay you,
To ruin a world,
To flatten a city,
To blow up kids.
Your bagatelles, plot twists,
War. Famine. Disaster.
Love. Hope. Light.
Death. Failure. Dark.
Is it true,
That, to you,
We are just a work of fiction? 

The End

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