One wonders why so many people commit suicide at holiday time: the utter silence this morning when I woke up at 8 am. The clouds, the fog, some drizzle, and dead silence. I guess I knew what to expect after the last few years when I have been alone and felt left out: when i am supposed to be the big pops.
Well, Harold Pinter died yesterday, on Christmas Eve, so I guess it is good to be alive: he was so bitter about Bush, Blair, even Margaret..... why do that, esp. at end? I guess the PK thing has taught me better: we already know, Plato explained, that politicians and doctors cannot rule effectively because they love the basics like money and power, and respect pride.
So I refuse to get wrapped up in the new politics: I remain suspicious like of a new wife.
I guess the best attitude is to think the same about Christmas..... That brings me to the letter X. And letters are signs that run out of meaning, yes, nothing is more surprising than life except writing, but my addendum to Pamuk, rhetoric is just rhetoric. Not profound but it is my blog and no one reads it anyway, right? Don't end with a question.
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