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March 6, 2012
Home today—her place—tending to a sick kid and his brother, who’s faking, but I gotta respect the scam. It's heartfelt, if transparent. They're up in the master bedroom watching cartoons and laughing; I'm on the couch listening to Oum Kalthoum (At the bedside Havel) and dealing with my client's shitty copy: my squeaky-wheel client and his burlap sack of rocks and words he thinks is a book. I keep at it, of course, every day anew, a slave to scope creep and tiresome ingratitude. He doesn't realize what he has in me. A fucking theme, I guess.