Fragment #1

I run the risk of appearing overcome with the notion of my own excellence, but at the same time I am becoming forced to believe that nothing new will ever be accepted by anything or anyone established, be it reader, writer, or publisher. My wild and base assumption being, of course, than what I write is not only new, but this somehow conforms to excellence. Perhaps what I create is not new, and therefore, just another item, easily cast aside. Or perhaps it succeeds in being in a category to itself, but my failure is to assume this is in any way positive, or worth reading at all.

But then again, there is still the strange, slight chance that what I am doing here is not only interesting and unique, but in being so, it becomes an anomaly, something wonderful but also forgettable, because everything trained to recognize good is jammed and pressed to the gills with its already overflowing content, and I flow off to the gutters not on account of any reason, other than the physical vicissitudes of the limitations of how much quality any one of us can really stomach.

On the side of the buffet lies a dish untouched, being unfortunate in that it has taken on a bit of a green color from its ingredients, and its smell betrays the inclusion of fish. The sour cream, the chips, and even the vegetables are all consumed in their reasonably assured blankly pure taste categories, as our buffet-goers enjoy these clouds of simple fat, carbohydrates, and salt--but this unidentified casserole is tossed whole into the garbage can at the end of the night.

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