the professionals constipated writers squatting over their machines on hot nights while their wives talk on the telephone. while the TV plays in the background they squat over their machines they light cigarettes and hope for fame and beautiful young girls or at least something to write about. "Yeah, Barney, he´s still at the typer. I can’t disturb him. he’s working on a series of short novels for Pinnacle magazine. his central character is some guy he calls ‘Bugblast.’ I got a sunburn today. I was reading a magazine in the yard and I forgot how long I was out there..." endless hot summer nights. the blades of the fan tap and rattle against the wire cage. the air don’t move. it’s hard to breathe. the people out there expect miracles continual miracles with words. the world is full of constipated writers. and eager readers who need plenty of new shit. it´s depressing.