Einstein, by Walter Isaacson; Women in Love, by D. H. Lawrence; Confessions, by Rousseau; Boomsday, by Christopher Buckley (author of Thank You for Smoking); The Divine Comedy, by Dante; Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut; and anything by Bukowski.
plymouth was romantic today. and it wasn't lonely to drive alone. it was actually quite nice, and the experience reminded me of the joy i used to receive (regardless of the weather) while driving. and then jewel came on the radio, and i used to cringe at the sound of her voice, and mock her emotional lyrics. but, this time, i found it to be a very well composed song, the lyrics were sweet, and the tempo matched the laziness of the weather perfectly. i felt simplistically complacent, being sixteen again.
i feel like a plantation nigger, digging and digging ceaselessly, hoping to find something that i can cherish in the dirt that soils my body; something that will motivate me to keep digging, digging. the infected sores on my back plot a chart of hopelessness and utter despair. rather than sulk in pity, however, i have come to regard them as a part of my character. but this character no longer belongs to me. it has long been lost in the dirt that i keep digging, digging, under the command of some formidable, ominous presence that keeps breathing salt into my sores. i enjoy the sting though, it meshes quite elegantly with drops of death that litter my corpse. digging, digging, for something remarkable, something extraordinary, revolutionary. the question of its arrival brings me to mess with the dirt each day. but dreaming can only endure for a limited amount of time. and time gnaws at my sores, slowly bringing the deterioration of my skin, my aspiration, my optimism. too soiled to dig, i sleep. because sleeping passes time that is otherwise unproductive or disparaging. so fly, fly all of you. i'd rather sleep. the stinging pounds too fervently. and god, does it hurt.
girls with cameras and boys with baseball caps will one day marry. henceforth, their life together, helplessly drowned by the drone of routine, will be falsely captured by the girl's camera. she will desire romance, he nothing substantial. it is a true pity, but all that is important is making sure the pictures are portraits of happiness. that way, children will look at them and have hope for themselves. that is, until they marry as their parents did. so keep on taking pictures, girls, because they are delicious memoirs of something you will never be able to conjure again - the romance in living.
i think that i would actually enjoy watching me live my life - if i were someone else, of course. it's really quite humorous. in a completely somber sense, naturally. that's why i'm going to write about it eventually. and you'll read it, and think "ay, sean. i worry about you sometimes." and i'll just give you that characteristic sean smile and go on smoking, and showing up late, and swearing, and womanizing, and spending money that isn't mine with great passion. just don't expect the book to come out on time.