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“I tried to hire my mentally ill brother,” he said. “I gave him a knife. He’s forbidden to touch them but I gave him one anyways and told him to use it on me. That was my strategy for productive writing. My brother would stand by the door and I told him to cut me down if I dared stand and walk away from my computer. A computer with no internet connection, of course. Only a word processor. That’s all.” “Impressive. And how did it work out?” He shook his head. “It didn’t. My brother got very bored and played around with the knife and hurt himself, dammit. Today I imagine I’m locked in a cell with a computer and my captors made a deal with me. You have to write 50 poems a day, they told me. Else you don’t get out of here. It’s an okay method but I still would’ve proffered the first one. My brother would’ve made some money too. I’ve life insurance.”

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