This. Again.
I'm reading a very nice book right now (The Book of Disquiet) and I keep running across little parts that I'd like to read aloud to someone, but I don't know anyone that would care.
That's pretty much the only time in my life when I remember that I have a LiveJournal, so...
And in the same way that others return to their homes, I return to my non-home: the large office on the Rua dos Douradoes. I arrive at my desk as at a bulwark against life. I have a tender spot -- tender to the point of tears -- for my ledgers in which I keep other people's accounts, for the old inkstand I use, for the hunched back of Sergio, who draws up invoices a little beyond where I sit. I love all this, perhaps because I have nothing else to love, and perhaps also because nothing is worth a human soul's love, and so it's all the same -- should we feel the urge to give it -- whether the recipient be the diminutive form of my inkstand or the vast indifference of the stars.
In a semi-related note, between this book and this commercial, I'm thisclose to having a fit about going to Lisbon.
That's pretty much the only time in my life when I remember that I have a LiveJournal, so...
And in the same way that others return to their homes, I return to my non-home: the large office on the Rua dos Douradoes. I arrive at my desk as at a bulwark against life. I have a tender spot -- tender to the point of tears -- for my ledgers in which I keep other people's accounts, for the old inkstand I use, for the hunched back of Sergio, who draws up invoices a little beyond where I sit. I love all this, perhaps because I have nothing else to love, and perhaps also because nothing is worth a human soul's love, and so it's all the same -- should we feel the urge to give it -- whether the recipient be the diminutive form of my inkstand or the vast indifference of the stars.
In a semi-related note, between this book and this commercial, I'm thisclose to having a fit about going to Lisbon.