Or perhaps

I just like melancholy (Sebald). Comes of growing up in a rainy climate?

Raining here today. Angular shadows on the church? Forget it. Wet zinc roofs instead.

A couple days ago I started reading Knausgaard, Book 2, which I picked up in London in a cheap paperback edition that looks like it would melt to pulp if I left it out in the rain. Maybe that would be a good thing. This is fucking boring, I thought, as I started reading the first of its 523 pages. Slowly I'm getting hooked. Does he think he's the only person who was stultified by spending his days tending small kids? Well, at least he's honest about it. I cringe even at admitting it wasn't the best of worlds. He manages somehow to balance his love for his kids with his distaste for child-minding. Not that easy to pull off.

Well, back to work.