written on the back page of Le Cote de Guermantes:
a redundant
subconcious
dregs up
old dreams.
random spewing that I actually think I like, today, spur of the moment:
O, the incommunicable aweflop to gloriousness...
(it is the most appropriate description yet.)
My dad bought me a book that contains every painting referenced in Proust's oeuvre; it is fucking fantastic. Stared down a little Whistler before lunch. Took a nap.
I have to deal with step-mother's family members at 3.
If it 'tweren't for them drogues, lawdy be.
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