SHUT UP YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF DOGSHIT
is practically etched into the notebook midway through, the ink bleeding through the next six sets of pages.

I flip to page seventy-four:
If you're Here, then you've come to the Right place.

(If you're Here, then run. Run away.)

The ensuing tale (of a serendipitous encounter with a milkman) is no more remarkable than the tale directly preceding it (a story involving a mouse and an empty jar of strawberry jam), but the style compels (impels); there is something wormholic about the author's universe that precludes rationale, a literary rapture sans raison.
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