Black and White on Black

Here, a new book, about a colorless man from Japan.
Here, a new paper, blank and smooth, without doubts, deliberations, desires.
Here, a stack of old worries and senseless struggles when there are so many new and worthy ones.

Even though the front and back cover are plastered with blurbs from famous publications 
declaring the writer brilliant, insightful, and humanizing, I find the dialogue stilted. 
Yesterday, I went to the pool and swam short laps for half an hour.  

In trying to write something important, I write something unimportant.  
The agent is not taking any new work at the moment, no matter the quality of the submission.
The wind is blowing the door open and closed.  Here, a woman, looking so old. 

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