‘Er your aunt is away at a refresher course.’ ‘That’s fine. I can stay can’t I?’ ‘Er yes.’ Four hours later, drunk, on her back on the lounge carpet and being fucked by Uncle Peter who was slamming into her for the second time and crowing like a randy rooster, Renata knew her problem was alcohol or rather the excessive intake of booze. So she fucked her almost comatose uncle almost dry next morning simply to teach him he was not up to speed with nubile young women of her generation and left. At the bus station, facing a wait, Renata clung to a hot chocolate and thought her life was going nowhere. She told herself very severely to stop running Renata. Go to a friendly place with friendly people, mend your ways and try to find happiness. This life you have been experiencing will corrupt your mind and spirit and eventually leave you mentally and spiritually gutted. Oh yeah? She doubted she’d listen to such chastisement. Up to now she never had. At 9:30 next evening Renata arrived at a. Ofcourse, like Birdwell, she'd have to publish it herself.In the end, what was inspiring about Birdwell was not what he'd written,but how much he'd written. How dedicated he was to putting down hisobservations and the meticulous way in which he did so, taking it onfaith that his effort wasn't wasted. And it wasn't wasted, was it? Hispoetry, if serving no other purpose, had given value to his otherwisereclusive and seemingly threadbare life. He wrote without any audience,without any hope of an audience, without any encouragement, certainly; infact, with all the discouragement that only a thoroughly disinterestedworld could provide. He wrote, apparently, because the act of writingmade him feel more alive. What better reason could there have been thanthat?As painful as it was, Marcia felt almost duty-bound to read through hisoeuvre, as if Birdwell had been writing somehow to her, "the unknownperuser" of his soul, existing as she did in the "far-flung'ed future"only he could imagine, and.
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