My bed feels like it could do with a slow tilt shot, like one from Tarkovsky's Stalker (with the debris and things underwater). There is a lot out here - on the bed - to give a lead into my subconscious and life in general. All unfinished stuff, fads, half-loves, refuse. It seems to be growing into a trash heap. And you know what comes from the trash heap - the bug, ungeziefer. That might be why I'm curious on the mornings - I just might find myself undergoing a transformation one of these days. Kafka would come visit. You could come, too.
My troubled association with texts continue. I remember carrying the Krakauer book through the Leh trip, and yet it was DD finishing it over a single night, that too under the excess influence of nicotine and cannabis. That book is still here. There's another that I could get 5 pgs into. And one where I've only managed to make it till the introduction. If I frisk my imaginary self under the pile of clothing, there are some more that I forget.
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