I have 2 amazing books to read over Thanksgiving - Winterson's Lighthouse Keeping and Murakami's The Elephant Vanishes. I am as excited as a 5 year old would be on Christmas Eve, waiting to open her gifts. I wish it was perfect weather to go with these books. There are plenty of wooden benches beneath maple, birch and other trees here, which are so forlorn - yearning for someone to sit on them. But the cold is just too bone chilling to read sitting on them.
Have you observed how, happiness makes us insensitive? Like when you were happy, you couldn't comprehend or were patient enough to hear out or really feel for someone who's in not so great state?
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