My sister asks me what's been going on with me lately. I don't want to get into it so I avoid the answer.
I read a little this morning over coffee, finished the January invoice and started watching YOU on Netflix. It's all on the negative side of peaceful. I went tutoring for just an hour and came back. The last of the triplets actually likes the topic a bit more than his sisters. Unsurprisingly though, none of them likes to read. It shouldn't surprise me but it still does every time. I need to up my game for this one.
Watching YOU started a new thread of thoughts. It was eerie how much the plot and small references reminded me of what had happened with B. The book You was mentioned in DE's diary, a book that J had given to EE to read. I remember because I looked it up, and after I discovered the whole fake diary fiasco and saw that D started watching its adaptation on Netflix, the connection was seriously uncanny. I'll probably get the books on Kindle. It started another thread of thoughts, however. I started wondering if authors like Stephen King were aware that their books could potentially serve as guidebooks for psychopaths and sociopaths. It's a brittle thing. Life can stir the imagination, the imagination thereby creates art, which then adds to the life of someone else. And thus, in the words of Oscar Wilde, life imitates art. Dr. F, I finally get it, no thanks to your course but thank you nonetheless.
If only the art of poetry wasn't so lost on the world nowadays. The vicious cycle was still so alive then. No... I can't fault anyone for doing what they do. It's far too complicated a web to be trapped in. After all, I'm a honey bee, not a fly under the mercy of the big bad spider.
PS: spiders aren't insects. They're arachnids. There is a difference
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