On weeks like this one I shudder to consider the National Geographic-style narration that could accompany the activities of this 21st Century Brooklyn Female Writer.
The subject rises before the sun, drinks a brown hot liquid filtered from beans she crushes in a small machine. She enters a separate area of her hut where she bends over what appears to be a flat silver box. There she remains for hours, emitting an odd clacking noise with her fingers, stopping only to drink more hot liquids and to eat nearly raw cow. A smaller animal flanks her, and the two communicate through seemingly random patterns of blinking and head-butting. Otherwise the subject does not look up until the sun sets. Then she eats foliage she forages locally, congregates with members of her herd around a large, flickering screen, and drinks a potion of fermented rye berries. Upon returning to her hut, she follows the smaller animal into a blue and gold nest, where she remains still until recommencing the routine before the next dawn.
On weeks like this one I shudder to consider the National Geographic-style narration that could accompany the activities of this 21st Century Brooklyn Female Writer.