Soledad

Under the intense aphasia of sitting in a room with no one to talk to, it raining slightly more than a drizzle outside, and feeling as the song by Milton Nascimento goes "Para quem quer ser feliz, invento mais...Invento lua nova a clarear...", I found a blog while wandering through blogland. It hasn't been updated in a long while, which probably means that she is happy. Anyways, life is going on here, roughly speaking. I thought of no one reading this blog. Mike says he reads it, but it's just like someone reading the newspaper. And I thought of the people all around the world reading Harry Potter, or better yet, the manga industry, into which I have dipped my pinky toe. To this, I can only quote, and not write, Thoreau: "Books, not which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing institutions--such call I good books." Maybe I should just stop blogging and read this.