Monday, February 02, 2004

I don't read too much of fiction anymore. I hardly have enough time to read what I ought to be reading. And even that seems to be all that I do. Survey words, analyze them in the vacuousness of my ignorance and disseminate their pre-decided importance. I even talk like them now. In words bigger than my name and syllables with more weight than meaning. And yes, it all comes together every once in a while. And yes, they all are convenient fictions that we conspirators choose to believe.

And I am mixing my stances.
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot, nine days old...

Reading a gorgeous piece of fiction right now. Gorgeous gorgeous slutty melancholic fragmented broken macabre life.
Go pick up 'White Noise'...

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