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I just ... I don't know what to say. So many stories are making themselves known to me, now, that it's almost as if I have Tori Amos strapped to the ceiling in the room upstairs, the room of inspiration, where I left my tools.
The not-for-profit profits from Eau De Neil presumably going some way towards tidying up the King of Dreams' harrowing legal expenses.
I think in some cases comics creators get a rough deal on the internet, because their fans are just jealous of their talent, and want to kill the father.
But I find myself wondering what Neil's scent, his aroma, if you will, is like, though.
So far, I've thought; joss sticks, lovely old musty old books, leather Italian jeans in Camden market on Saturday afternoon, worn by young person with interesting spots in the crook of hir elbow as ze meets, finally, the man she's been waiting for always, in her dreams. The precise tang of the guilt that may or may not come into play
But I haven't really been able to get any further, scent-wise, conceptually, without doing a little sick on the clothes.
But enough of my yakkin' - what does Neil Gaiman smell like to you!?! |
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