He had written a short story that featured a character who went around to public libraries to rip out the last pages of modern classics only to discover that one of his closest friends was secretly guilty of such deviant behavior; everything had already been done.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
Comments
Post a Comment