You are so terrible at keeping in touch. So I'll leave this with a memory. I want to smoke cigarettes and listen to Regina Spektor with you in this quiet snow shower. Resume your busy life.
Every night before I go to bed, I make lists of whatever I learned or created and try to arrange not only a meaning, but a subtext. Austerity suits me in life, but in letters I think in terms of a buffet. Whether or not I even desire it, the lighting and environment demand some stacks.
I've become quite interested in biographies, which I feel is some subtle cue that I am growing past fiction, or that fiction is somehow juvenile. I miss fiction, but lately I find myself only reading biographies and anthologies of poems or short stories. It's a gross kind of pretension that seems fitting with my new job. People may not be able to spell or pronounce ciabatta or baguette, but they can put them away like nobody's business. Like so many... er creative? types, I feel ill-suited towards labor. Perhaps it is the general interaction; so far everyone at my new job, like so many before them, have tried to impart a lesson in insincerity re: public interaction. My formal politeness is somehow more hostile than shrilly exclaiming at their every utterance.
I havent been writing much, just happily devouring book after book. I've neglected Netflix and any attempt to court someone in favor of a chaise lounge and iPod. Post-modern Oscar Wilde is ready for the gallows.
