I am a …

I am a … man who is smiling, on a grey January day, having discovered a writer quite unlike any I’ve known before … and I am writing a glowing ‘review’ of a book I’m only 30 pages into because anyone who writes about mountains that ‘splooge out thick liquid fire spurts that run downhill and cool and turn into vacation destinations after a few thousand years’ just absolutely needs to be read by every pandemic / winter wearied person I can think of. So I shall stop distracting you, because I want to read some more, and I want to hurry forward the moment when you tell me that Jenny Slate and her Little Weirds lifted your imagination up to sunlight too.

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