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2 weeks away and I’m back. I meant to come back with less, but I came back with more. I came back with Joan Didion because she saved me from myself once; I came back with David Mamet because everyone needs a dose of true and false from time to time; I came back with David Lodge because I don’t know him yet.

I’m back and I’m happy because my mother’s house is not my home anymore. The rooms are occupied by memories, and cats. The house made me sneeze and my bed gave me nightmares.

I’m back and I’m sad because tomorrow I will wake up at sunrise and get on a train, close-eyed, with all the other robots, and there will be no time for dreaming. I will do this for 7 weeks. Then another 6. It doesn’t seem like much, does it? Somehow it feels like a lifetime.

And I will come home each night and Didion will ask me why I don’t just leave my job and write. Mamet will urge me to stop looking to the future. Lodge will be nonplussed.

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