“I'm haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words.
I've been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened, like lint.”
Richard Brautigan.
Beautiful, sad man, of all the writers I have read why do you appeal to me, speak to me? Is it your horrendous honesty, pure expression of sadness?
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