I am a dumb writer. I write only things that are dumb – or at least, those are the only things I know how to write about. Could I ruminate for an entire day, pass a thought through my mind over and over and over again, whatever that comes out will still sound dumb. Sometimes, I try to make the things that I write sound intelligent, either by a configuration of perplexing words, or by a perplexing configuration of words. But one needs only lift the embroidered blanket to see the mess of dumbness piled beneath. Is dumbness really in my nature? Am I to be a dumb writer forever? That is surely frightening. But suppose it were my talent; to write dumb things – the dumbest of things, in which are contained not a sliver of silver sagacity – wouldn’t my readers feel themselves so esteemed, so privileged by ordinary intelligence? Maybe it isn’t all that bad being a dumb writer; at least I’m charitable.