- now i can live without this this distilling of a day thru the cheap (less than aus$10,000) coffee machine of me brain. no more waiting waiting waiting for the splotch splutter swish of dirty brown half quarter no truths into the cracked coffee single-serve cups of me minimum opus.
- i can live without this. we used to hate this whole thing didnt we. it used to hurt even on good days. even when you were writing something true it felt like you were lying thru yr teeth. none of the Hem smugness you wanted so much.
- it was like Flaubert in Madame Bovary. there was no meaning in my life (i shdve really just killed myself) so i tried to create another world in order to destroy what i had (whatever meaning it had left).
- it was like, 'mme bovary put an extra corner on her husband's dilapidated tricorn hat.' this line is extraneous (like the extra corner). 'tis written to convey to you a nothingness the emptiness of life in Yvetot (or wherever) the feeling of breathing in a vacuum. how cd such things exist? how cd it be written without emptying the soul of the writer (assuming he did have at least a half one)? but even if he did he wdve lost it now gone forever in the very act of writing that goddam sentence.
- it feels like the sentence shdve been written in chalk and rubbed off after reading.
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