Writers Observation

At the writers conference:

 I am surrounded by faces that wrinkle with disdain, sounds like not my shit yet that shit seems to find its way into my morning coffee. The "I am better than" mill about in their hubris standing in ponds of brilliance believing oceans could never. While awaiting the golden hand of approval, eyes dart left and left some more regaining a child's excitement to an adults agenda shining brightly for the ego who won't see past its delusion. 

 We sip in silence as the circus rounds its own tail. The slurping of satisfaction adds texture to the brine but the results still remain and now eating has a different understanding.