Excuse me — this is so embarrassing, I never do this — but I couldn’t help but notice. Your prose. It’s so muscular. May I touch it? You don’t mind? Thank you!

Oh, it’s so big! I knew it was muscular, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so big. My.

I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but has your prose lost weight recently? I only ask because your prose is so taut. Your prose is so lean and so taut and so spare. Your prose is rippling and bulging with muscles, but it’s so tight, too. It’s sharp and it’s clean and it’s tight and it’s pointed and it hurts to touch it, but I don’t mind.

I’m sitting in a cafe by a river with your prose, and your prose is pouring me a cup of the blackest espresso and making all the other prose look like absurd, puffed-up dolls beside it. Your prose is butchering a deer in the field for me and tilting my head back to drink its blood. Your prose leaves me at night to wander I don’t know where and visit I don’t know what, but I don’t ask your prose where it’s been. I know your prose has to do what it has to do.

Your prose is so vigorous. It’s clear and it’s trim and alive and I want your prose to hold me. Please let your prose hold me. Just let your prose pick me up in its strong arms and carry me away from here. Please. Please, I need your prose to take care of me. I’ve been trying to make it on my own for so long, so long. I’m so tired. I’m tired and sprawling and turgid and purple and weak. Your writing has abs. It’s thin and its muscles are glistening with oil and it’s lean and you’ve got to let it take me away from here. Your muscular, muscular prose. Please.

[Image via Wikimedia Commons]