He had a very important meeting at 11 a.m. and there were still a hundred kilometers to go. A terrible highway, apparently abandoned, where the undergrowth had already taken the entire shoulder extension and from where, now and then, through the dead fractures of the asphalt, the dry branches shook its bony arches.
I’ve sold two Dianas this month. Harold is not happy. “One week,” he says, gesturing across the store, the first its kind in America, “then it’s bye-bye to Bodyvival for you.”
His hero complex, her tendencies to explode, my paralyzing necessity to witness
It’s like if you were to say to someone, this is an egg, and the person went, no, no, it’s not, it’s a loaf of bread. It’s like that. You can’t argue with these people. You can’t even begin to defend objective fact, because the other person’s brain just isn’t willing to accept – or maybe isn’t even capable of accepting – any new or contradictory information about this particular thing, about a loaf of bread being really an egg or whatever.
The lava of self-hate burns from cabbage-green skies as we hide under a tree that burns brittle brown.