September 27th, 2003.

I seem to spend every waking moment wandering through this house, looking at the scraps of artwork scattered, glued, hung, discarded – on every corner and in every corner. On dresser doors and door knobs, covering lightswitches and cat hair. This morning, getting ready to go get brunch with Mary (Christ, 10am leaves me feeling mauled) I run across a series of Shoe cartoons redone by Will.

They’re hauntingly reminsecent of some ghastly sit-com, talking of the main character’s death through lung cancer, complete with a hollow -sounding punch-line at the end of every strip. It was the most frightening thing I’ve ever read.

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