Winter morning when earth and sky are the same color the only way of telling where land ends and heaven begins is the ragged black line of pine sawing the horizon. White flakes drift in a suspension of air. The snow doesn’t fall.
Reading Thomas Ligotti’s Teatro Grottesco.
Camus’s The Plague meets Lord of the Flies.
(Blindness by José Saramago)
A badly written financial self-help book by a now bankrupt guy, who, as best I can tell, made his money peddling financial self-help.
I think I had that conversation with Em, except it was about foxes on a trampoline, not puppies.
Kind of like The Road, but happily ever after.
The hunt for a killer spam filter (in second person Scottish).