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Every morning I kissed my sleeping wife good-bye
and, full of inspiration, marched out the door of our apartment,
notebook and fountain pen ready to go. Two blocks away was my
beloved Cafe Stein where, after coffee strong as a stone and
a fresh croissant. I would get down to work on my newest magnum
opus. The waiters glided by in a professional hush. If I looked
up and caught their eye, they'd nod approvingly at the fact I
was writing in their cafe. They carried silver trays that caught
the early sun's rays, which threw silver back against the smoke-stained
walls. Anyone who doesn't want to be an "artist" in
Europe raise your hand. (Voice of our Shadow) |
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