It didn't help that I was listening to Thom Yorke while reading Leiber's The Winter Flies; a somber, autumnal track the way Yorke does best. It didn't help that I'm a little disturbed with things: a professional disturbance of the very banal kind, but a disturbance nevertheless. Leiber's story, in other words, was the glue that helped join together the disparate parts of my psyche aching under an extreme dullness.
This was a very strange story. I don't know what to make of it. Surreal fiction.
This was a very strange story. I don't know what to make of it. Surreal fiction.
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