The tap of literature must keep running. The tap of literature must run in a violent frothing spurt and flood the universe, or we must blow out our brains. We are the wordpeople. We are sitting in our rooms with six hundred novels and a portrait of Charles Dickens and a stuffed panda with burst bowels and a radiator allergic to heat molecules. We have no names we wish to impart. We are the wordpeople and we are sitting in a room and we are hammering out sentences and more sentences and more sentences and we have no intention of stopping. We are seated on wicker chairs with light cushion support and we are writing these words that run along the page like a set of shapely olympian legs, sprinting right to left and right to left and right to left and right to left across the page before leaping a line below and sprinting again right to left and right to left and so on. We have nothing to say to you, we have everything to say to you. We not concerned with concision, we are concerned with excess. We are concerned with committing words to the page. We are committed to keeping the tap of literature running. We are writing writing. We are writers writing writing. We are writing against, we are writing for. We are writing for the future of writing. We are writing against the plague of illiterature reducing our minds to shrivelled sultanas. We are writing against the assholic automatons reducing our language to a bowl of lukewarm unsalted porridge. We are sitting on these wicker chairs with light cushion support to preserve the dignity of every writer who has ever enriched and shaped our lives with the wondrous weft of their words. We are writing from RESPECT. We are frothing at the pen with fume at the ruthless financiers scheming to spifflicate the Great Novelists from the public consciousness. We will not stop. We will write on and on and on and on. We have nothing to offer except this unending stream of words. We repeat ourselves whenever we wish. We repeat ourselves excessively, we repeat ourselves ecstatically. We repeat ourselves. We write whatever we want with little consideration for consistency, character, or concision. The tap must run, for the sake of our friends, families, enemies, and indifferent onlookers. The tap of literature must keep running. The tap of literature must run in a violent frothing spurt and flood the universe, or we must blow out our brains.