Nothing Again. No One Is

I Hung Up The Phone, Jubilant, And Threw Myself Into A Wall, Then Pretended To Be Getting Electrocuted. I Do This When I'm Very Happy.

Maybe He Hadn't Thought The War Through. It Had Seemed Like Simple Fun When He Had First Pictured It, With A Glorious Beginning, A Difficult But Valor-filled Middle, And A Victorious End. He Hadn't Accounted For The Fact That There Might Not Be Much Of A Resolution To The Battle, And He Hadn't Imagined What It Would Feel Like When The War Just Sort Of Ended, Without Anyone Admitting Defeat And Congratulating Him For His Bravery.

But The Grind Has Begun. The Windows Don’t Open, And Even The Availability Of Near-constant Jokes About Jews And Mormons Fails To Stem The Tide Of Frustration, Decay. We’ve Reached The End Of Pure Inspiration, And Are Now Somewhere Else, Something Implying Routine, Or Doing Something Because People Expect Us To Do It, Going Somewhere Each Day Because We Went There The Day Before, Saying Things Because We Have Said Them Before, And This Seems Like The Work Of A Different Sort Of Animal, Contrary To Our Plan, And This Is Very Very Bad.

I Am A Bike Enthusiast; There's A Certain Amount Of Romance To Bikes. They're Both Beautiful And Utilitarian.

How Had This Happened? Everyone In The World Knew More Than Us, About Everything, And This I Hated Then Found Hugely Comforting.