Rash-inducing mental conflagrations
What? Murakami has a book about Kafka? Is that even allowed? That seems like a dangerous combination of modern surreality that might lead to, oh I don't know, some sort-of mental and emotional conflagration that eventually culminates in some exceedingly rash behavior. Or at least a blog entry about my dream of doing something exceedingly rash in a desperate attempt to quell the stifling ennui of my existence. Or something like that.
I wonder if I will ever have the opportunity to read at my leisure again. Blink, Flow, The Botany of Desire, Freakonomics, The Tipping Point, The Anthropology of Turquoise.... There are so many books on my list, and I don't know when I will be getting around to them.
Think of all the thoughts I could be having!