Poe: Heard on the BBC yesterday about that Scottish kid who was pretending to be a gay girl in Syria, being tortured by the police.
Hoffmann: Heard about that - for a week "she" was the only news coming out of there. The whole world was praying for her.
Poe: Yeah, and it turns out to be a straight college male with an agenda.
Plath: Don't they all have an agenda?
Eliot: What kills me is all this blurring the lines between fiction and journalism. Seems like everybody with internet access these days wants to play the poet. Seriously! If everyone is a writer and a poet now, where does that leave us?
Poe: Quality, my friend. True quality of prose - or poetry - or prosody - will always shine through.
Plath: You're an optimist. You think quality will be rewarded. But you forget that fecal matter invariably rises to the surface . . .
Hoffmann: . . . and some of the best waters are buried on the bottom of the ocean.
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