I signed up for a writing course. The course instructors were famous dead authors. Edger Allen Poe, Charles Dickens, Kurt Vonnegut and William Shakespeare, to name a few. I was excited because ghosts tend to be more one-pointed than living people and say insightful things.
But the workshop fell flat when the mortuary delivered the dead authors, who then failed to reanimate. The organizers of the event gave us our money back.
As I was walking out, the ghost of William Shakespeare woke up, looked at me, and said, “Zounds! Nothing ’tis more mind splintering than the flapping of the tongues of quill scratchers.”
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