imma try to swim from something bigger than me.
If my life were a TV show, this past weekend would have been some kind of season finale. The details paint an unhappier picture than the reality, but SUFFICE TO SAY that it was loosely comprised of losing almost all of my valuables, the people I care about having no idea where I was for a few hours, and ending up at a police station in the middle of the night. I'm okay, everyone's okay. I have the flu and I'm without any of my cards or forms of ID but damage control is, so far, going well. I'm in, like, episode two of the new season where everything tangible has worked out somehow but everybody's emotions have been thrown up onto the floor and I'm cleaning it up, drip by drip.
The last time I read a book that made me want to write was a year and a half ago. That's not great. So much space on my shelf is being monopolised by inaccessible sentences (Eliot) and unadmirable characters (Kerouac) and unexplained epiphanies (Murakami). I'm currently reading 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway and it is a drag. Does anyone have any recommendations?
The last time I read a book that made me want to write was a year and a half ago. That's not great. So much space on my shelf is being monopolised by inaccessible sentences (Eliot) and unadmirable characters (Kerouac) and unexplained epiphanies (Murakami). I'm currently reading 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway and it is a drag. Does anyone have any recommendations?