I’m really creative with the titles these days.
Every so often I read a book that makes me think, “Well, shoot. That is writing. It’s about time I do some of that myself.”
(Yes, I actually do say “Well, shoot” in my inner monologue.)
I know that anything I attempt to write will never live up to the beauty of these tomes, but they still leave me itching to record my own words. To make a name for myself in the literary world. Although I apparently need to read more like them, because I haven’t written anything yet. But one thing at a time. For now, we present the books that are so beautiful that they give me hope for the literary community as a whole: (Not including my top ten, because I’ve discussed them enough.)
Man’s wobbly little mind isn’t equipped for hauling around the great unknowns.
Very few people realize, there’s no point chasing after answers to life’s important questions. They all have fickle, highly whimsical minds of their own.
Nevertheless. If you’re patient, if you don’t rush them, when they’re ready, they’ll smash into you. And don’t be surprised if afterward you’re speechless and there are cartoon Tweety Birds chirping around your head.
As I passed through the gates, the blistered hands of nostalgia gave my heart a good squeeze and I realized you miss shit times as well as good times, because at the end of the day what you’re really missing is just time itself.
An aside: Looking at Special Topics and Fraction of a Whole now, I realize they’re quite similar (and brilliant).
And there is a chance that everything we did was incorrect, but stasis is itself criminal for those with the means to move, and the means to weave communion between people.
People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors.