u can (not) redo
the refrain of bitter memories

‘You’ll never be a writer.’

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Nationality: without. Eyes: grey.

‘Mr. Nabokov, I want to be a writer.’ Nabokov looks up from his reading and points to a tree outside his office window.

‘What kind of tree is that?’ he asks the student.

‘What?’

‘What is the name of that tree?’ asks Nabokov. ‘The one outside my window.’

‘I don’t know,’ says the student.

‘You’ll never be a writer.’ says Nabokov.

 kinbote / wordmeds 
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