Your Brush With Life (Continued)
He valued this machine not for its antiquity, but for its purpose. And this machine's purpose, he knew, was to love. Its sole purpose, he had yet to know, was to love you.
Your father wrote novels. More importantly, he innovated novels. That was what he thought, at least, and just thinking it was enough to give him minimal fulfillment. Through cheap ink he provided a gateway to his wealthy understanding of freedom, eternal happiness, and other fictitious and empty distortions of life, whose grounds no accomplished writer in history has ever touched. He wrote countless pages of optimism that left his and everyone's world, before you, unchanged. This was how your father came to be the most pitiful sight that the literate world had ever seen, because he puzzled no one, and everyone puzzled him.
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