remember, the play's the thing. i finished pshew the city we became and it wasn't that good to me, maybe i'm just not a fantasy type, reality is more interesting, i like more realistic art, and the writing was a sloggeroo. i'm just dipping into the saddest thing is that i have had to use words,the madeleine gins reader and realizing she made those houses that were purported to resist death. whatever, it's too early to write about but i already in a few pages got more grist than in hundreds of the city we became. it's not an apt comparison i suppose but one book reflects on another even if they have no relation. it's all relative. i want some grist for the mill as usual, and i want some flow for the waterwheel.