farewell dirty ice. i keep reading about My Struggle, by Knausgaard. the dang thing is 3600 pages and aims to be as reductive as possible, without writerly flourish, and i sent the second volume back. shame. it keeps coming back, now it is the third volume and trying to draw me in. maybe i can just read this one about the realm of childhood. if it holds me can i go backward or forward? do i have to start at the beginning, the mundane mountain of it all. argh, but i want to consume it. amazing that he could write such a thing in this technological matrix and that so many find it strangely compelling. all right goddammit i'll read it, the whole caboodle. i may be lying.