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There are 4 boxes of books down in the garage which'll go to the local library whenever I get around to it. Today I culled more and they're stacked upon my coffee table, looking pitiful & alone & unwanted by their parent (me). These ones are more special. And having them sitting there, their titles turned towards me, makes me want to weep...in guilt for getting rid of them, for not rereading and/or reading them (I had the best of intentions, for not keeping them with me always. Still, I guess I must give them their freedom. Information wants to be free. I shouldn't be a miser w/it, w/texts I'm not using. Sure, Ionesco's Rhinoceros meant a hell of a lot at the time, but face it, you no longer read French, damnit! (Yes, now I've reverted to talking to myself.) I need to get out. I need to get away. It's going to consume me unless I flee. B'bye for now.