Right now, I have to write about myself something intriguing and laudatory. In the third person. As if it wasn’t me who did it, but Will Shakespeare or Oprah Winfrey. Sorry, friends.  Not in this life. Not in the next rebirth. Not me.

To do so would be the same as to spit in that part of my own heart where a drop of God lives.

I could have entrusted this work to my young assistant. Be sure this cute girl would sincerely write that “Otto is cool, and it’s impossible to come off from his books.”

Do you really need to know this? Do you really interested to know which a street of the great city I was born on? To the open windows of which girls’ campuses was I climbing celebrating the warm September nights of my youth? What career did I interrupt to become myself? I don’t think so. It’s not interesting even to myself.

It seems I realized what I could and I want to start with.

People who treat me well say I’m a gifted person. Do you know what a gift is?

I’ll tell you. It’s a thick cable full of heavenly electricity. It descends from above and freezes next to me, pulsing with the magic energy. I tightly wrap my hand around the exposed edge of the cable, and it pierces me with the flow of one more startling story I hasten to tell the other people.

This is what’s called a literary gift. It’s not we who create the parallel world of plots, which we like so much to dive into. On the covers of the books, the names of the stenographers are printed. My name is Otto Rich. Anyway, that’s what my driver’s license says.

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