I woke up this morning feeling that my life is good. Tremendously good. Last night we drank red wine and had potato-rosemary bread and ate jambalaya. We walked the dog. I smoked. I played the piano. I finished Don Quixote and read a bit of Dostoevsky ("White Nights") in bed. Good life, right?
And then, surfing the web for Plimpton content I read this, from Daedalus Howell, on his blog: Drawn and Quarterly.
My life is grand, it is, but there's still room for jealousy.
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