Proust's novel grew and deepened into over 3,000 pages of everything and nothing: a Möbius strip of profundity twisting into mundanity, mundanity twisting into profundity.
I don't think he'll succeed, but he's doing his darnedest to build a working spaceship.
I was recently contacted by an old sheboon girlfriend, who suggested we do lunch sometime.
do lunch
The anarchists were drinking victory shots and making toasts because even though they'd never met with success before they surely knew it when they saw it or it found them. Snapcase, his beard effulgent with spilled drink, had become certain that school was out forever.
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