yeah little bear i got old, it seems overnight, and i feel like lately this pandemic's aged me years. something's changed in my brain. it's always congested and i feel my frontal lobe like a wall of fog straining to think. anyway i'll keep reading even if each word displaces the last sentence. i'll keep adding to my queue, and r.'s too. today i went in the liberry for 3 books and when i check out she says you have one more, on the rolling cart. thankful it wasn't the big book of pussy, which i wanted to take to the self-check out station. it was the end of october the book about the pandemic written b.c. before corona. now it's old news i expect even though it's only october sixth. i also got earthlings and suppose a sentence and summer snow. deep down i suppose every book becomes the silt the river carries to sea but in the meantime it feels like every sentence i read simply disappears leading me to think why bother and then why bother to dream, even if you fail to dream lucidly and hold your dreams in memory, they're still dreams, your dreams, and the sentences of others you love and forget join in the silt in the river of your dreams, little bear.