The world has never seemed so far away

I’m getting complacent. Dulling. There’s that scene in Sidhartha where Hesse describes Sidhartha’s spritual momentum slowing like a potter’s wheel at which mud is being thrown. I was talking to myself and I pronounced the word <hot>, hat. Like a real Chicagoan.

I have to prove to the university of Illinois that I am a resident here, since the tuition is lower for those who live in the state (or province, or region, or what have you — however you want to describe it).

This experience will worsen my English. It isn’t possible to write under these conditions. It’s like being bombarded. Michael said that war is worse than a song. They-I. I-They. My father never wanted me to perceive myself as a midwesterner. They always made fun of my foreign accent.

I’ve been text messaging too much, and hardly reading. Or hardly reading anything of stylistic substance. I should reread the GW Turner.