At a friend's going-away
(-indefinitely-to-study-scary-postgrad-AI-work-at-Berkeley) party tonight I was caught off-guard when she pressed a book into my hand as I was leaving.
What strangeness is this? Guests give the presents at parties, not hosts... looking into my hands to take a better look, I found myself recalling the look, feel and smell of that particular volume lent by me five years and a different life ago.
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus & Other Essays
When I found epic duels in verse and catastrophic debate serving my purposes no further my final act of desperate defiance had been to put this volume in a position to plead the position I'd found myself ultimately misrepresenting.
I'd have asked tonight if its words had been as effective for her as they'd been for me, but the fact that she was still here to return it to me testified silently to its success.
in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...