"I want to update this, I really do", he thinks, mouthing the words. His name is Simon or Hyrum or something and is a wiry Jew with a brick layer's spine and scrivener's eyes. Scratching the psoriasis under his peyas, he ponders, "is anythink in this life is really verth recording for posterity?" (Even his ponderances are in a thick Yiddish accent.)
I like to think I don't share his sentiments, but everything I write, every comma-laden, meandering prose-poem cannot escape autobiography, so in turn, I cannot be sure.
Hyrum sits in his humorless apartment, not writing, eating a McDonald's Fish Fillet and a can of green beans, reading other people's blogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment