Murakami

What can I say? It’s Murakami all over again. It’s him. I did not mean to. But it happened. And in some ways it surprises me. It draws me into it. And it’s lovely. It’s like a world, maybe his world, maybe some world, maybe The World. The books, are never normal. But are they really that abnormal. Sometimes I feel that the books are really normal. I feel that standard stories are too straightfoward, too unrealistic. I can sense that the oft twisted perversions, complications, contradictions and perplexities found in his stories are so real. It is like the real world, where nothing is as it seems, where nothing is that simple. If life were that simple and understandable, perhaps it wouldnt be life at all. Boys are not just boys. 13 year old girls can think of weird things. But isn’t life like that, so difficult, so special, so unique. We aren’t all of the same cloth and same mill, we aren’t all a fairytale, we aren’t all a nightmare or a thriller. Yet, we can see life so differently. Yet, I have no idea where you are exactly in the world right now, what you are doing, what you are reading, what is going through your mind. I’m curious. I wonder. Should I call you? Should I text you? I don’t know. How can I interrupt fate like that?

Dance Dance Dance. I did not mean to read about dying. Granted the book isn’t that morbid all the time. It’s an interesting book. Quite. Not a top book. But quite riveting all the same. Could be better. I think I need to start reading more. It is difficult to find books. But I also have a stack of unread books.

Murakami.

Murakami

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