A few weeks ago I thought to myself, it would be nice to finish reading Pedro Paramo one more time before I died.
I feel a little tired. I have often felt that life is an unending series of minor disappointments. In all this I don't know if I'm a good guy, or not.
Does beauty and virtue only seem to be meaningful? What are we in our quiet moments? I don't believe in myself much. Is this self loathing? I think I begin to see what Josef K sees. And if I am not whole as myself what then for the others of the future? Very poorly, it seems, very poorly.
