My life keeps getting more and more strange and dreamlike, yet I don't feel as if I have anything to say. Or, maybe I just lack the necessary impetus to comment on it. I think one often needs some external propulsion. A kick in the ass.
I don't feel like being kicked in the ass right now. Really, I don't.
Something will happen. It always does. And if it doesn't, we'll just close that book and start another. Maybe one that's beautifully leather bound, with ornate gold embossing. One with the right amount of heft and the perfect aroma of ink and yellowed paper.
If that's not the language of enthusiasm, I don't know what is.
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