/lit/ - Literature

He broke his fast with boiled neeps, and shivering stew, washed down with a flagon of Dornish ale. The grease from stewed salt pork clung to his gristly beard as he donned a slashed velvet doublet of purple satin, emblazoned with the crest of Ser Eddard Bauer. Over his smallclothes, he wore black pantaloons. He clambered into his Honda and began the short journey west, bearing northwards along the interstate. He turned left, edging his way past opposing traffic. If I look back, I am lost.

His office was a dull brown keep that sat astride the Crown Road. His desk was hidden behind a soundproofed beige cubicle and was lined with a faux wood finish. Reek, reek, it rhymes with teak.

He had finished A Dance with Dragons not a noonsday before and wondered if in truth he had finished the entire series. George R. R. Martin is so constipated from the fawnings of his lickspittles and self-indulgent side stories that he's not like to drop another turd of a novel anytime soon, if the last decade has told it true, he thought to himself.

He smirked at his own witticism. "It is known" he said aloud to himself.