That evening during the lecture, the man was sitting and listening courteously while the renowned writer was lecturing. I' d like to be a writer, he said. Where do you get what to put? Well, the great writer was sitting there looking at him. The man went to the next city on that evening, where the renowned writer had another lecture.
He cried when the author had at last shut his work. And the writer was sitting there looking at him. You' re sitting very still, listening to your own hearts. Your cardiovert talks, you dictate. and inhaled and heard what was inside.
Waiting and waiting for his ticker to say. That' s foolish, he said at last. And so the man got up and went out the front porch. Then he went down the street. Not once did he look back. and then he went through the city and then through the state.
However, one evening the man was in a pub and saw the celebrated writer in the background. He laughed and drank with a group of mates. And the man remained there and observed her all and sundry. When the writer went, the man followed him discretely - from afar, like a television investigator.
When the writer turned to his chic lodge, the man was looking for a lamp that continued from the road. The man entered the writer's room belatedly that evening and was standing in the darkness above his beds. Looking at the writer in front of him. And then he kneeled down and put an ear upon his own one.
and then, in the mornings, he got up. The author was smiling.