Did I mention that this crazy re-read all Murakami novels project has resulted in the most bizarre dreams within dreams within dreams? My sleeping life has come to resemble my reading life. Which, strangely, now seems to pervade my waking life.
I see every suggestion as a tunnel to bore through. I see every PowerPoint in meetings as a labyrinthine underworld that could reveal itself in a thousand and one dangerous or beautiful (or both) ways.
It's official: I've got Murakami on the brain and in the brain and on my skin and under my skin. Makes for an odd stew to move within each day.
