12.22.2003

Reading a "novel" for the first time in months: Don DeLillo's White Noise
("Is death odd-numbered?"). Since beginning the "book," my dreaming at night has become ominpresently narrated by a soft-speaking man. From what I can hear he is middle aged and handsome. He seems to know everyone I know. I miss his sarcastic commentary during waking hours, when it's just me alone (and the world).

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