Under The Duvet. On A Sunday.

I'm home from work today and deep into The Information. This guy sends me running to the dictionary every page. I just had to share this sentence with you:

On the table, untouched, there stood a basket of sauce-glued nachos, and heavily cooling tortilla, as inert as an organ on a medical tray.

I stared at this sentence for several minutes before I could move on.

It's cold, and will be hard to extricate myself from the blankets today. I've got snacks by my bedside and a good book in hand, no one will hear from me before mid-day tomorrow. I *should* go to the street and get a New York Times, having said I would search its pages once a month for an event to get me out into the world.

The temperature easily freezes away my guilt, however. I have no problem pulling the covers up to my chin and happily allowing Martin Amis to slice me up with his metaphors until the sun goes down.

Every day AshWalker's blog counfounds me a little more. The Twang of the Void snakes to the most curious corners of pop/internet/New York culture. How does he find this stuff?

KMP's sig on the NaNo Singles forum contains this quote:

"One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name." --William Travis

Isn't that lovely? One crowded hour of glorious life. It's like music.

jules