He kept to himself. He was just one of the nameless faces
you walk past every day. He had a small one room apartment, and there he wrote.
Every day, almost every spare minute, he sat at his typewriter and wrote page
after page, story after story, book after book. And he never showed a soul.
Eventually, he died (Traffic accident). And so his sole
relative, a second cousin, was the one to discover his works. She published them,
and he became world famous as a serious author.
Which would have annoyed him, since they were meant to be
comedy…
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