Surely, this is another sleight-of-hand. It’s a little dispiriting. Wait, I lie.
It’s terribly dispiriting. I’d let it slide, but this isn’t just another day. It isn’t just another month; it isn’t just another year. Our lives are weakning by the day, our resolve no longer stoic. Time’s a whore, without a doubt, but under whose tutelage – surely not His – will we manage to learn the ways and means of this whore and subsequently exude some semblance of control over it?
I want my own Grushenka. Well, let me rephrase: I’d like my own Grushenka. Ofcourse, with it would come the caveat that i’d be able to toss her whenever I’d have had enough. Wouldn’t that be just sublime?