(no subject)
Tonight someone was saying some bullshit about Great Gatsby. And someone else was saying more bullshit about Raymond Carver. Right in front of me. Straight up. As if what they were saying was true. As if it were real. As if, somehow, they understood Fitzgerald and Carver. And I don't understand either, but I knew what they said was bullshit. And I had to leave. I had to go home and have a drink and console myself.
Because nothing else matters. Nothing matters more than the green light and the hot rolls at the end of A Small, Good Thing.
I don't believe that, but I will cry myself to sleep thinking of that, and one other thing.
Because nothing else matters. Nothing matters more than the green light and the hot rolls at the end of A Small, Good Thing.
I don't believe that, but I will cry myself to sleep thinking of that, and one other thing.