Beesting Pudding

I finished the Farah yesterday afternoon. He placed his best foot forward, being an Aristophenes for Somalia, waiting ten years, absorbing the disparate kinetics of that burnt land, allowing such to gestate as exile and form. . .well, into something approaching melodrama. It was disturbing that tribal conflicts, the failure of the NGOs and "responsible" nations to remedy and act in beneficient manner, how all of this was resolved in a maudlin story about kidnapping, organ transplant/trade and graft from abroad. I began my rereading of Nausea last night. i need such. I am at a loss. I had thought it was fatigue. Sleep-deprivation tends to sour my mood. My sinuses are also congested and I have a certain bile towards mezzo-lettres if you will. I am hoping the Sarte will affect such. Perhaps I am coming to grips with my angst, albeit in a backdoor manner. This has seldom been a segue for confession. Perhaps misdirected grief issues and outright anger at human stupidity have dripped onto the welcome mat. I am listening to Ives and struggling at the very limits.