'Son, to be perfectly blunt, this is rubbish. I appreciate your coming all the way here to see me in person, but there is nothing I can do. Nor you for the matter.'
Always lovely to hear, people calling your essence rubbish.
'Do you want some advice, son? Give it up. Go home. Do something else. You may kill yourself pursuing this.'
Instead, I should kill a dream?
The manuscript has been sent to I-totally-forgot-how-many-publishing houses. Of course there has been no replies. Of course everyone called it rubbish.
Of course.
I look into the still, glassy water. I hold the only copy left of my manuscript, the original.
My sweat and blood. My pride.
My dream.
I threw it into the water.
Shattered.
He blinked, and shook his head.
A hand, on his shoulder. An old man, who gave him a handkerchief and a melancholic smile.
The old man motioned at the obsidian, and again his gaze fell on it.
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Hi! Sorry to be so protective, but I will okay and reply to your comment as soon as I see it! Thanks! :)