it's record time, i think. 45 minutes from ikebukuro to kita-shinjuku on foot; if only because no one walks it, let alone after midnight, let alone in the rain. safe in my self-diagnosis of food poisoning, i gambled on a cold for another day. after all, i come from a city of rain...although, again, dear portland, i know you're right now smitten with snow. another kick in the face: the clothes i wore on my walk will dry more quickly in my room than the ones i left to dry on the veranda before the rain.
i ask this group of friends for book recommendations -- i've only a few days to hit the bookstore before i leave -- and, sadly, haruki murakami's 1Q84 (don't worry, america, you'll have it after not too long) comes up first. the saving grace: one of them remembers that i prefer murakami ryu, and suggests the singing whale (『歌うクジラ』), which i'm sure, unfortunately, you'll never get to read in english. again unfortunately, that book was printed in two volumes and is only now available in hardcover, which means it would replace one other book as weight to carry home. japan excels at first world problems.
what's a girl to do? especially when her stomach is revolting again. make plans to cancel plans for tomorrow. roland barthes is on your side.
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