Smoke drifted lazily in the room, winding up to the ceiling. He stood in front of the crowd, eyes cast downwards at his paper. his head was balding, despite his youth. The room was silent.
He began to speak, slowly at first, then quickly. His voice was crisp and clear.
"You all have a misguided opinion of me. You seem to think that I am some kind of genius, an artist, an intellectual. I'm not." He stared at the men in the front row, at their suits and their ties. He glanced back down at his paper and continued: "I am nothing but a collection, an emporium of all the things I've ever read. I've never said anything that wasn't a quote from somewhere or other. I have no opinions but the ones I've read in books and in papers. I am completely unoriginal- a kaleidoscope image of all the people I've known. I don't truly exist. You've said many times that I'd be missed, but I would not be. You would miss only the convenience of me. The convenience of having a walking, talking museum of all mankind's lesser traits. You don't believe me, I see that. You can't accept that I am merely a plagiarizer of all the things you've said. That all I am is a menagerie of words and books." He looked out at their faces, at the murmurs spreading in their throats. "But thank you for your support. I accept this trophy with pride."
The crowd surged forward, to hug him, to assure him they loved him. And they did. They loved him because he was nothing, a reflection of themselves. They loved him because at his core there was nothing but words. He was their soundless gong, their broken window. He was their empty bottle, their blank masterpiece. He was their tuneless hum and their sorry reflection. And the writer watched them with sad eyes, he watched their angry-sad mouths and their hurt-hungry arms and he was saddened. Because in the end, they defined him too.
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