On a rainy, cool Sunday afternoon, when the house is clean and I'm buzzed from a long lavender bath, I curl up with some Bukowski. After reading for a few minutes I start to feel hopeful and light. Then I feel ashamed.
Hope comes because Bukowski reminds me that everything is strange and beautiful and even the most heartbroken soul can find grace.
Shame comes because it has been way too long since I have wandered in this field.
Next stop: Karamazov.
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