It altered the course of my writing career,and provided my ego—which had been nourishing itself cannibalistically on itself—with reason forfeeling I could write. Dig it a little deeper. It flickers for only a moment, but in that moment Flint’s hand draws back from the book. I remember once when I was a very little kid—and I was not the world’s most tractableyoungster—wh
s ago, in Los Angeles, before the Third War even got going completely, therewas a man named Buesing who lived in Cerritos. t Okon, when someone yelled, “ Alan Foster?” and I turnedaround and they hit me in the face with a paper cup full of warm vomit. The voice on the other endwas Razzia down at the house. “ On a night like this, Christ, that’ s just awful.
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