THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 1

Dear mister publisher man, thank you for giving this cover letter your undivided attention. It has been a long journey for me to bring this manuscript to you, and I don't mean that in a philosophical way, but in the sense that I had to sit on a cramped bus, next to some dried vomit, for two and a half hours, then walk for an hour (because I got lost) to hand-deliver my precious work to you. I hope you have your hot cup of tea ready on your desk with your favourite crunchy snacks, because the story is about to begin ...

I am in no way an enlightened man, but I believe that only an unenlightened man can enlighten himself, and he can either choose to do it the hard way or let some idiot do it for him; I hope to enlighten myself, and perhaps others, by writing this book. Like other homo sapiens, beyond being just a skin bag of sticky red goo with some miscellaneous – but otherwise useful - lumps floating about inside, I have something to say. Some people have a lot to say, but their words carry little meaning, while others have very little to say, although their words convey a fathomless depth of wisdom and knowledge. I sit hunched at the keyboard, occasionally scratching my head and catching a poignant whiff of greasy, stinky hair, typing the novel that will be the last step of my journey towards enlightenment.

It is some time in the early morning, and the sun creeps cautiously above the horizon, as I tap at the oily dandruff covered keys, periodically turning my head to check if the door behind is still shut. Should someone walk in and surprise me, left without any option, I would toss the laptop out of the open window like a snot embalmed tissue, pretend to notice some cobwebs on the stone ceiling, and hope the machine did not smash a passerby's head down below. But back to the point, before you tear the remaining strands of hair out from your shiny balding head – I haven't spoken a single word for eleven years.

To be continued ... PART 2