Writer, shat out the first one on a stainy corner table in a neighborhood bar since devolved, demoved into unnenighborhoodness, scratching chinhair figuring alls it takes to write the second book. Atlanta, north of Midtown, south of Buckhead, where the men are men and the empty apartment buildings upon empty apartment buildings are scared. We’ll fix em up and fill em right and well what ever else is there to do anyway but write write write, which sadly sometimes I don’t don’t don’t?
