walking into the cafeteria, and the hordes of people crowded around the buffet table. today a crab and seafood dinner was being served. blue tickets were handed out in admittance for the crab. a frenzied line was waiting for the red crab meat that lay before them. the shit taste still has permeated my taste buds and left me with staleness with everything that i eat from there. again, proceeding from cafeteria to elevator to room, now i sit and write this. and i really don't know what i should say now. maybe the mystical leaning of Murakami can approach me again as i continue to delve deeper into his Wind Up Bird Chronicle. music is something that makes me happy, writing is something that makes me happy, reading is something that makes me happy. i find the greatest beauty in latin american and japanese literature. Spring Snow, Pedro Paramo. i wish i could write with the intense zeal that these books are written in and i try to perfect but, but i don't think and i don't think it will ever quite happen.

i am currently hearing mandala by thievery corporation and about to go into murakami's head once again. the sitar is played into my ears and the bass is dub like matched with the tribal percussion of the drums...