There’s a passage in Exile In Guyville where Dave White ends up, unexpectedly and suddenly, in some vastly reduced estate. I don’t remember specifically, but he writes about how he always knew he was destined to live in squalor. I’ve been fighting a rear-guard action against the same sort of fatalism over this last week. It’s exhausting, primarily because at every point where it would be easy to just give up and learn to deal with it, some hope is dangled. That Pandora was really a grade-A douchenozzle.

Also, I’m dreaming in prose again. All the stories are absurdist and cold and alienating. Snappy dialogue, though.