/lit/ - Literature

A wrinkled worm of tin foil
Coiled round a rock
my love
my crack
My Philosopher's Stone

"I don't think I want to talk about it just yet. It's not done."
"Neither is anything you say you've started."
"I'm a terrible writer, honest. I don't write enough and I don't write to completion. Maybe when I'm older and understand the value of work, but until then, I'm just having my fun while my body permits." I turn in my seat and motion for the bartend. "Two shots of the cheapest tequila you have."
"You're crude. I don't know why I came back."
"You want two as well? Alright. Four, please."

>20
>Housekeeping at a luxury hotel
>Write a novel or two and then move to South America to start a farm

>There are people who think Modernism has ended

The Greek life at my school's pretty rad, I guess. There's a lot of us and we've even scraped up enough money to rent a fuckload of houseboats up at lake Shasta next weekend.

I don't think anything the Greeks wrote actually affected the chances of my beer-boat-sex party though.

>>6335665
>marijuana is a creative aid
>/lit/ is subjectively shit when we consider avenues to intellectual growth
>shitposting aids in critical thinking skills when effort is placed into it
>the Nazi's were nowhere near as evil as portrayed
>postmodern literature/poetry is for those who have no concept of storytelling and are compiling word vomit to please the pseudo intellectual hipsters that read it so they feel superior to others
>vidya has the potential to be considered an art form but even the best examples fall short in comparison to film, lit, and music, because the nerds in the vidya industry just hire people to do their art for them
>the best of anime < the best of western animation
>anybody that refuses to work out (in any form) is wasting half of their potential as a brain within a body
>communist ideologies are interesting to mull over, but if you continue to promote them then you're a delusional idiot and deserve to be unemployed
>capitalism is just the next step in human evolution
>dying cultures don't need extensive saving efforts, though recording tradition and language is helpful for the academic sphere

>I'd love some comments on the prose, whether it's comfy and pleasant, or just plain boring. Thanks guys,

The carpet is barely short enough to hide crumbs and the stains caused by hundreds of generations of guests within the room. It's got a bed that squeaks when jumped on, and maintains the smell of stale cigarettes, despite its no smoking policy. Underneath the desk is a small collection of pamphlets and papers regarding the surrounding tourist attractions, as well as the nicer restaurants that won't give you stomach promblems. The hotel's had issues with one of the chinese places as of late.
Johnny started work at the Hilton in Sweet Home, just a thirty minute drive outside of Vegas as a contract plumber, where he had been given a room and a week to fix a secondary boiler system. It took him four days to seal a pipe with severe air leakage, mainly because the stance it required him to place one leg inside the tangle of wires and styrafoam and the other was supposed to be on a floorpipe while an arm pulled him upward so he could see the rattle of another pipe system as warning for when the steam would gush upward.
He decided he's continue playing with the boiler for two more days, and say he had it finished on the sixth. There was no better time to relax than a self-diagnosed vacation. It helped that the hotel insisted on bringing the lastest dishes by room service over to his room, and that the tuna salad had slices of apple in it.He planned to smoke cigarettes, dream about the future, and sleep, for at least the grand portion of his remaining two day stay.
Johnny woke up to the sound of a soft wheeze, just barely punctuating the still air with a snivel sound that threatened sickness and breathing difficulty. He opened the door rapidly in order to ask who was wheezing outside.
An impossibly thin man with a long, protruding nose stood at a perfect clerk's attention; eyes above the client, arms gently still at the man's sides, a vacant face and a complete lack of empathy for whoever he was talking to at the moment.
"I am Mister Broulache, at your service sir."
Johnny was confused. He did not need any more service nor did he need any more of the tuna salad, with which he had gorged himself last night. He felt a little sick, and a little more pudgy.
"Mister Broulache, I fear that your services are unnecessary, though I appreciate the work. Is there any special plumbing task that needs doing?"
As if that was the magical phrase, Broulache spun around and beckoned for Johnny to follow. He led him to a large, red door with the word, "Employee," placed across in large, white lettering.