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Young Writers Society


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While you ponder this, enjoy a poem:


Prospect (1956)
by Sylvia Plath

Among orange-tile rooftops
and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
gray as rats,

while on spotted branch
of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
and darkly glare,

watching for night,
with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,
passer-by.


If you're paranoid that you're making your novel worse with each passing decision clap your hands
— Panikos