Today I received correspondence from the Georgia Review in the form of electronic mail. It was less than satisfactory. If my epic poetry is "derivitive," if my voice is "pompous" and "confusing," then I'm a G.I. Joe. (To be clear, I look nothing like Joe, and my epic verse is exquisite.)
I shall retire now to this place of God, nestled at the edge of Moscow, to pray for Stephen Corey and his journal. He needs my support now more than ever. As his name is emblazoned upon my flesh, I fail to understand how he could forsake me now. I fear for him.
With great piety,
Naked Man
P.S. — I was asked to leave the church shortly after entering. Something about proper attire. But I remain devoted to both my spiritual journey and saving the G. Review from certain peril.
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