"Time really is one big continuous cloth, no?"
I've never been good at writing letters. Everything comes out backwards. I use exactly the wrong words. If that isn't bad enough, writing letters makes me more confused. And because I have no sense of humour, I get all discouraged with myself.
Generally, people who are good at writing letters have no need to write letters. They've got plenty of life to lead inside their own context. This, of course, is only my opinion. Maybe it's impossible to live out a life in context.
It's terribly cold now and my hands are numb. It's like they aren't my own hands. My brains, they aren't like my own brains either. Right now it's snowing. Snow like flakes of someone else's brains. And it'll pile up deeper and deeper like someone else's brains too. (What is this bullshit all about anyway?)
A Wild Sheep Chase.
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This great book reminds me of the greatness of the universe where all the forces aligned in perfect unison last December at Kino to compel me to reach for this book and actually buy it. Can't seem to get enough of it (!!!) - Haruki Murakami reminds me that poetry exists in all languages and when translated, still able to retain its existence and meaning. This book is so great I wanna be selfish and not let anyone know of its greatness but great things are to be shared so everyone should read it if they have the time : )