What was the point here?

I REALLY DON'T KNOW.

I would much prefer to be watching Iron Man right now.

Well, I could always commuter rail from home. That doesn't sound like a gigantic sucking chest wound at all. Gurgle Gurgle Hack Spit.

I think that everyone should read Omega Minor by Paul Verhaegen. It's really good, and smutty. Michel Houllebecq is also really good and smutty. I'd suggest reading Platform first, and the Possibility of an Island. Arthur and George by Julian Barnes was quite delightful, and it should have been, the man plays snooker with Amis, of course.





I never quite know what you people, if you're even out there, make of this scattershot performance, this themeless dribble of effluence and that is why, for most of the time, in fact, for almost all the time, I just shut the fuck up, or blabber on about nothing at all, like how my life is this constant crumbling wall, that I do nothing to patch up, I'm no little boy with his finger holding back the Zederzee, oh lord no, I just let it fucking crumble and am amazed that there is anything left. It is some reverse Sisyphean torture, where instead of rolling the boulder uphill all day, I more or less hold my head under water and refuse to drown. Perhaps this all seems a little melodramatic. But I would just rather be sleeping right now.


Love,
Z