I sometimes imagine that I had written
To Kill a Mockingbird
or The Great Gastsby
or Catcher in the Rye
or any of those great novels.
Then I imagine that, because of my fame;
all the women love me
and would stay.
But then I remember that all those authors are dead.
What good to me is her love
if I’m underground?
Reblogged this on boofey2010.
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