Thursday 12:44 p.m.
I've just finished reading All The Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. If I lived to be two hundred years old, I doubt if I could ever write a book as good as that.
I hope I'm feeling a bit better today, but I'm not sure yet. But the purifications have been working wonders. The last few days have made me realise I don't have to go anywhere to get this juju done. I've got as much seclusion as I need here. I've even got a hut. All I need to do is lose the jobbie. I thought for a while back there that I'd get books published if I stopped drinking beer. I don't know why, but that makes some kind of sense. At the stage I'm at, I could write books and meditate. Anyway, there's a full barrel of home brew in the kitchen, but I haven't got the slightest interest in drinking from it.
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3 comments:
Top of my bedside pile is The Road by the same guy.
I say! That doesn't compute. Either there's something wrong with the home brew or with your good self.
Albert? I got The Road out of the local library yesterday. It's probably even better! Hotboy
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