Saturday, March 14, 2009


Perhaps Nietzsche was the philosopher of illness, my own stake has acheived an observation: there are two varieties of illness, those which allow reading and those that smother such. While hardly a encompassing contium, the reason stands that I tumbled home Thursday and slept for 18 hours and was unable to lift anything, much less an eager tome. I awoke on Friday and decided that I couldn't make it out to my truck, which may have been an exaggeration, so I looked for fare within. I decided that samizdat be damned, I was going to push into The Pope's Rhinoceros and thus I did.


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