Your words lay elegantly on my plate, dressed to perfection and seasoned with a fine understanding of the human condition that heightened my expectations.  I cut easily through the body of your text and as it bled with sincerity, I savoured its scent and salivated at tender possibilities.  But before my first swallow I tasted a sour edge and my teeth stuck in the grisly innards of your plot.  My belly revolted, dizzy at your inability to hold tense and I lost my appetite completely as I noticed the rotten side of your imagination.  These pages were weeks old in a warm room with no sign of an editor.   I cast my plate to the floor and bid you good day.



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