Apologies for the very late ThursDunst. I have only just returned from my westward trek. My hair is unsatisfactory - the Hays Super 8 has cut corners since my last stay, and there was no miniature bottle of shampoo in my shower. They do still provide the tiny, wrapped bar of soap. Why are the soaps that size? Shouldn't they be even smaller? Have you ever stayed in a hotel long enough to use that entire bar? Ever wonder what they do with those little soaps? I like to think they're recycled - thrown on a pile, melted down, poured into mold, shipped back out to the world's motels.
The trip was otherwise ordinary. I pushed through a lot of Tender is the Night:
One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.
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