Most recently, as of five minutes ago, been reading a book goes by The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Just shy of 100 pages, I've learned that the heart is, in fact, a lonely hunter. Lots of people lonely in this book. Seems Loneliness knows no bounds, go figure. Young, old, black, white -- don't matter to Loneliness. This is all according to The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
Nothing devastating in the narrative, as yet. Just a load of sullen folks talking to deaf-mutes about in-particulars. There's a sense of roiling, though. Definitely some roiling going on, under-the-surface-like. Have a feeling shit's about to pop off. Local negro impregnates white trash and goes on trial or some such thing.
Before this, talking on the phone with girlfriend. We competed against each other in trivia games at sporcle.com. Name the U.S. presidents. Name the states. I remembered how to spell molybdenum during the "Name the elements" game. Proud of that.
Earlier even than this, work. Fuck. That. Noise.
S'pose I could get into what's been on the mind. Problem with that -- not much. The heat's been insufferable, which has led to a general malaise regarding anything but the simplest functions. Walk in straight line. Open door. Eat that thing.
So many people dying, though? Too much dying. Too much dying.
My copy of My Life and Hard Times is still sitting on my desk from when I finished it and set it there weeks ago. It provides a perfect visual reference to what these last two weeks have felt like for me.
I'm sorry, this is the best reproduction of the picture I can manage. It's a man dozing in a chair, anyway. Uncomfortable drowsiness. That's what that is.
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