The last thing

So, Monday. So, watching the low ebb of what you think of as your life slip away, molecule by molecule, in a slow and necessarily tedious drain. So, absent friends you would literally kill actual humans to be with right now. So, there never being enough time to do the things we yearn to, to say the things we long to, to be properly in touch.

So fuck you, Monday.

The answer to all these problems, momentarily speaking of course, is to get your blue self to The Paperback and pick up The Ragged Edge of the World.

To buy it new, because you never buy anything new.

To buy it from an independent bookshop, because you like the bookshop and you like the lady behind the counter.

To buy it regardless, because for Christ's sakes people, the world as we know it is crumbling to nothingness around our very ears, and if all I have left in life is the ability to spend $20 on a new book by someone who put some thought into writing it, and to buy it from someone who likes talking about books without the merest hint of pretension and who held Other Voices Other Rooms for me when I was still a long way away but really really needed a copy, then by God, I shall.

If it's the last thing I do. If it's the only thing I can actually do.