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10:14 a.m. - June 05, 2002 Thinking about this because last night my father stopped by with a large box with all those books in it, saying he had come across them while going through storage. I don't know what I'll do with all of them--probably put them back into the box and into storage--but I was comfortably nostalgic looking through them and remembering how easy it was to read and the hours I spent making my way through stacks of books. I have difficulty understanding people who aren't readers, wondering what they do with their time and how flat their existence must be, my assumption predicated, of course, on the basis of my own existence being fulfilling and cause to proselytize. Sarcasm, that. Read less and live more--what a novel idea. Jesus, won't the cliches leave me alone? I'm persecuted by cliches and similes and poor metaphors and tired turns of phrases. Persecuted. At my rate of descent it probably won't be long before I'll be afraid to read, anxious that the words will fly up and beat me. Damn. I need to quit. What a relief to know I'm not crazy.
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