mjg
I'm ready to come home.
I've spent the past 4 days locked in an attic reading House of the Dead. Fritz Eichenberg is God. The Doctor has some of his originals behind this huge humming freezer in the basement that I plan on tucking away in my suitcase. Yes, I'm plotting to steal fine art but I don't view it as such seeing as how he's treating it like shit. It will mold back there. Some day I'll be able to carve like he can...Eichenberg, that is, not the Doctor. I'll give credit where it's due, Dostoevsky isn't so bad himself. Quite actually, it's a fucking phenomenal book. Mother Russia wept when she read it and years later I find myself in this stuffy crawl space saturating the pages with my own sniveling. I'm not going to bullshit and tell you that it's inspirational because it's not.
I'm so disconnected.
Questions that are impossible to answer were never meant to be asked in the first place. This is me gracefully giving in to you. I won't call anymore.