When You Adapt A Book,

For Years I Feared The Opening Of Every Elevator, Half-convinced That From The Opened Doors Would Come A Bullet, For Me, Shot By A Man In A Tan Trenchcoat. I Have No Idea Why I Feared This, Expected It To Happen. I Even Knew How I Would React To This Bullet Coming From The Elevator Door, What Word I Would Say. That Word Was: Finally.

We've Lost That Very Simple Transaction That's So Pure, Where A Reader Can Say, "i Support What You're Doing, Here's My Dollar. I Know That You Guys Are Gonna Be Watchdogs Or Keep The Government Accountable, So Here's My 50-cent Contribution Each Day." It's Just So Tidy, And I Think So Inspiring.

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.

Love Is Implicit In Every Connection. It Should Be. Thus When Absent It Makes Us Insane. (you Shall Know Our Velocity)

There's Nothing To Be Gained From Passive Observance, The Simple Documenting Of Conditions, Because, At Its Core, It Sets A Bad Example. Every Time Something Is Observed And Not Fixed, Or When One Has A Chance To Give In Some Way And Does Not, There Is A Lie Being Told, The Same Lie We All Know By Heart But Which Needn't Be Reiterated.