The Writer

I was walking alone through the woods when I came upon Ichabod Crane. I could tell he was feeling bummed and I asked what was up. 

Ichabod said, “I wish my life were a better place to live.” 

I said that it wasn’t up to him but to the writer Washington Irving. 

Ichabod went on to say, “Oh, but my heart breaks over the loss of the affections of Katrina Van Tassel.” 

I said again that none were to blame but Mr. Irving and the strokes of his pen. 

Ichabod said, “But are you too beholdened to the imaginings of Mr. Irving?” 

I said that I was unfortunately bound to an unknown author.

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