I studied his words and was resigned to credit him the better writer. I found the task of committing to pen and paper for long hours a weary one, made especially unbearable if the pen was summoned to scribble theoretical dribble in pursuit of academic significance. (Despite this, I could persuade myself to scribe in a "professional" manner deemed appropriate by people of a societally-considered "higher" intelligence.) Having no desire to prove to others what I myself already knew I opted for retreat to my mind's core workings, leaving the flat mechanical functions of conception better left to those devoid of imagination (offense intended).
It was then that I chose to pen these private thoughts, which I hold no great reserve in telling you I considered them a genius on an equal level to those held in great esteem by critics sympathetic to the dead and dry authors found in the American Canon.
It truly is a shame that their words to not decay in a form consistent with their bodies, as I fear their once dull works have lost any semblance of the luster they once contained and now only serve to chain writers to a style of traditionalism with their authoritative existence.
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