George Orwell and Ron Silliman are walking me through tall, dry grass.
Orwell says “You know it really hurts me to do this.”
Silliman says nothing.
In the distance a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.
“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I’ve done but couldn’t I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”
Silliman snaps out a quick “No!” and bounds on through the grass like a dog.
Orwell puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me:
“I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”