We are not here by choice.
Yes, we are all happy to be here. We work, we create, we are among friends. But starting today, "here" is a very different place.
"Here" is sans Bowman.
We are but eight writers left stranded in the Hollywood desert. Where we will go from here -- indeed, how we will go from here -- remains unclear. Questions hover above us like the Sword of Damocles:
Who will read the stage directions?
Who will throw us a frozen Twix?
Who will nap on our couch just after lunchtime?
I have no idea. In all candor, I am fucking terrified. God help us.
God help us all.
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