Excerpt from a novel I’ll never write:

Kevin was the least charismatic cult leader ever. His shirts, very uninteresting, his pants, pleated and rather unassuming. When asked, the most most common answer his followers gave for why they followed him, was a shrug of the shoulders and a glib “what the hell else is there to do?”. I guess I’m a pope now, or at least Robert Anton Wilson tells me so. And the church, don’t even get me started on the church, it doesn’t exist. We had a meeting, three Tuesdays ago, and nothing was decided, save for a what dictionary to use in the game of scrabble which follows all our outings. And we always light cigarettes while claiming the fire as a benediction. Most of the time we argue the Latin roots of words, sometimes it’s Greek. Kevin never really says anything, sometimes he espouses a philosophy creole, mostly Buddhist, a little Hindu with a splash of Taoism. By god the haiku’s we never write! The vast, never ending nights of madness together, which will not happen. Kevin was probably the least charismatic cult leader you’d ever meet, but hell, what else is there to do?

(I stumbled over that in a file I forgot about, sorry if you’ve read it before)

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