In the world of literary giants, stands an irrelevant anecdote of a man. He longed for his creative prose to be read across the world. To be respected and held in high regard by his peers. To be seen as a literary force in his own right. And to, dare I say, win the Nobel prize for literature.
He hasn't, and perhaps he never will.
His name... Cedric Pipps.
Cedric Pipps is an obscure little man with a knack for poor writing. No, that isn't quite correct. He is a horrible wordsmith. His subject matter is boring and his sentence structure is non-existent. It is only by sheer curiosity that I have taken his works and placed them in front of the masses. I figured if the world can survive a pandemic, then it can surely stomach this collection of nonsensical word salad.