There are some mornings on which you wake up. On some of these mornings each interaction, each person and place, seems altered, even if slightly. Everyone is acting just a little different, as if. . . and you wonder if you are the common denominator. This is not a question i can answer for you. All i can say is that some days your foot might slip on three weeks worth of decomposing leaves, and some days you might look to those changing blatte with curiosity and wonder, some days you will desperately try to catch them, and on most days you'll forget they are there.

I have been writing the same thing for months in the same way. But do not blame me for being bitter; i thought wool was soft until i felt cashmere, and now i can no longer afford happiness.

I wrote a play in which, for the first page, Brickfoot and Nietzsche respond to each other using the words 'Yes' and 'No.' Then they argue with each other about intellectual property rights. They are sitting on chairs. Then it's over, but only after a woman stomps on a braid of onions.

I hate to bring it up, but i do. I sometimes look on as my my 'seemingly splinter-proof brain-scaffolding' implodes. I worry about missing the bus. I worry that people won't read this, and I worry tht people will. K doesn't want to make it to the castle but he has to pretend for the sake of the ending.

here is how Kafka ends the castle. No, i did not forget to finish typing it. this is truly how it ends. "She held out a tremulous hand to K. and made him sit down beside her, she spoke with an effort, it was difficult to understand her, but what she said"

that's it. not with a bang or with a whimper, but with slippers on, with poached eggs, and with an overwhelming curiosity.

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