Last night I had a dream in which I was an author writing a novel (since in my dreams is apparently the only way that actually happens. Save your snark, because I’m way ahead of you.) My hand on whatever book you hold sacred, this is an actual piece of prose that I remember seeing on the screen in front of him as he wrote:
They got it at a– You know what? No. Nobody actually wants to hear about the kind of people who would buy a monkey.
Dohoho. That’s where you’re wrong, dreamworld author.