in the heart of the midwest.

This book I'm reading makes sense to me only because it makes absolutely no sense to me. But that's the whole point. Nothing makes sense; nothing is supposed to. I think I'm okay with that.

I had a long discussion last night about the futility of language. Now I only believe in irony and paradox.

" 'Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night... You must not try to make love definite. It is the divine accident of life. If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses.' "

"One shudders at the thought of the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant... one loves life so intensely that tears come into the eyes."

-Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio