contact with anybody who has produced work of quality
fills me with a thwarted yearning empathy,
an implausible sense of fraternity,
a melancholy sting.
Regret and resentment gnawing at me, eating me alive.
This is what you reap
when you haven’t sown anything.
A Lifelong Brush with Obscurity
J O H N T O T T E N H A M
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