I feel like I read books and then reality strikes. I feel like I wanted to write books and turned to reality instead. I’m not sure anymore where reality ends and fiction begins. Does art mirror life or vice versa?
I read You Cant Go Home Again, the depression began.
I read The Elephanta Suite and then experienced the horror of the Indian call centers in technicolor.
I don’t want to presage the next thing. I should write HOW THE AIRLINES HAVE COMPLETELY LOST TOUCH WITH WHAT THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING – or – BRITISH AIRWAYS AND UNITED AIRLINES SUCK.
I am thinking of reading Lassie to calm my nerves.