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whatever the hell this is

I've had a big sick for the past some number of days. Started conveniently on December 30th, a slight fever and a general sense of yuck, so for New Years the wife and I sat here sitting here. The next day it transmorphanated into a sort of glitchy throat and congestion. By today it's become just a big orb of unpleasantry filling the space between my eyes, proving that there's something wrong with my understanding of the physics of volume -- there's just not enough space up there to have been holding all of this whatnot.

I recently finished reading Philip K. Dick's The Man In The High Castle. It's because of this that I've chosen to break my incommunicadoness for a moment. Actually it's not so much because of that as because of this post by this guy over here, who I can usually rely on to get me to thinking. And it's because of that for some very twisty reason that won't clearly be made to be making sense just now as some random digital watch that I swear I don't even have anymore spouts off its chirping alarm from the depths of this trashheap I call a room in my left ear for at least 20 minutes. All of those words, there, if re-arranged properly, will for a complete thought.

So that guy, in his Left-Brained configuration, at some point spoke enough about mr. Dick, or at least linked to something that spoke enough about him, that I finally decided I just had to read something. One day I asked him, probably here, to point me in the direction of something to buy. So he did, and I bought it, and now I've read it, and I'm split right down the middle about it and I'd really like to expostulate on that, or expound, or exsomethingorother, except for the fact that the reason I'm torn about the thing primarily involves this big, shameful thing about me and my relation to it: I don't think I get it. If it weren't for that I could unequivocally say I liked it. The writing is great, the surreality of the thing is just up my tree. But the whole fact of it ending up sort of leaving me hanging here saying, "err, what? None of it was real? Is that the thing?"

So I can get more into that at some point, as it is definitely a thing that provokes me into great talkiness, though I might probably won't, judging by recent performance. If mr. Left-Right wants to dialogue me about it I'd be grateful, and that would surely keep me talking about it. At this moment right here and now though I've got to get off to snoozing.