they're loading bombs into the hills

+ i'm desperate to read don delillo's the body artist. it looks like a prose poem at first glance. 124 pages. a novella a best. bits of prose. shards. i've been reading cosmopolis and i'm having trouble figuring it out. the waves and patterns are wonderful but there's a bitterly sardonic edge that i can't quite grasp.

+ i've stopped talking about music here, which is strange, because this is all about solipsism and personal autobiography and simple record keeping, in a sense. i don't really enjoy talking about music. sometimes i do, but not often. listening to records is intensely personal, and the associations i create are almost always individual. this is an ideal shared experience but i keep it personal.

+ my student society is now just a shill for cellular phone plans.

+ lots of reading, of all sorts. i need to make time and go for hikes before the weather turns.