I had no explanation, except perhaps that I fell asleep as one person and woke as another.

Reading these lines, I want the bus I'm on to go forever, so that I can continue reading this thick book with plots that spin on without end, one copying another but never really fully imitating each other; I want freedom from debate, from the need to explain, the need to be in person; I'm staring at what I've wrought with clumsy words and feeble hands, the things I've dropped and broken while trying very hard to cherish them, and I'm dumbfounded — and if this is how things turn out, if it's true that you never can win, then let me escape into the good desert of books, stories, copies of copies of copies, characters that blend into one another, losing all identity.


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