Saturday, March 16, 2013


this morning a friend of mine was playing with a demo for googledocs or something and i don't think it's currently in use as an actual demo because you have to dig to find it, but it is very amusing to play with.

if you have always wanted to write a thing and then have charles dickens jump in and rewrite your sentence while it's still in progress, you should play with it.

the link is here. you're welcome.

here is a short text from me and my collaborators this morning: emily dickinson, charles dickens, friedrich nietzsche, edgar allen poe, and i think maybe ralph waldo emerson.

so there was this one time... An hour behind the fleeting breath,  there still was no dinner... A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends. and it was pretty clear that the marvelous writer was all alone against zombies that knew where he lived.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.  because if you can write that mysterious ... nobody has any idea what you are talking about . Procrastination is the thief of time, collar him.
suddenly, it was 2:10 in the afternoon and nobody could remember where president garfield is buried. ... Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
However, the good writer had nothing to do but nail some boards across the windows and wait. the horror was coming soon enough. why distinctly had he taken the souls of his friends? Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual. surely he realized now that it was a bad idea.
but they, who didn't smell the fire burning, were coming. it is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things; it was nearly dinnertime and they were coming.

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