There's just something about Tuesday that leaves me out of sorts. Last week it was the same, only the trigger was a neighbor (of 3 years) asking me if I lived here. As I held my keys to open the lobby door.
I feel like I'm forgetting something important. And nothing will change until I remember. But the longer it takes to remember, the more insistent the nagging becomes.
This is what I get for reading so much Haruki Murakami. The boat was slow tonight, so I read 60 pages of "South of the Border, West of the Sun." Mystery and alcohol abound in his work ... along with pencil notes scrawled in the margins, I'm guessing left by a previous, enthusiastic reader who was assigned to write a very serious paper. I would like to kick her in the shins, by the way. It's like she made up her own private titles for each chapter called things like, "Another woman who has a problem leg" or "it's like they switched lives when he left!" Thanks for the heads up, hon!
I expect spoilers on the Internet. But not in the books I buy.
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