From south of West Egg:


Let me tell you I'm sick and tired of this sick and tired shit. It's the embodiment of the summer. My life in abeyance.


And what kills me is when I get my enthusiam back for one brief, shining moment:

Godel, Escher, Bach. What a book! At long last the conciliance I picked up from Mr Stephen Jay Gould can finally be put into practice. So I read the first chapter and of course it was a dream come true. Then some sort of lethargic wash hit me at the first chapter break. I remembered that my pleasure was workaholism.


I learned one thing this summer: I need forty hours of work per week. And real work, not drinking beer or even blogging. Which is why I could never be a writer --> if I considered it work, it'd never be good! At least this way I can be spontaneous.


Ring me up a check.
Post a forty label on my forehead, and call it art.