But I need to write!

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I am reading Margaret Atwood's "The Year of the Flood", a futuristic story where writing is prohibited (unless technological and temporary). One of it's 'bad-ass' artists hides out in the desert writing words in honey that the ants will relish on before they're discovered, or words written with toxic-spill-killed birds she sets afire, then telecast to the Mr. Rich and Bigs who still go to galleries. 

I would love to believe that Ms. Atwood writes of an impossible future.

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