The thought came to mind last night as if someone were asking me a question. "Are you all right?" No, I don't think I'll ever be all right again. How can you be all right? I look around me at the one room I am using, and there is mail piled up on the dresser, some of it very important, unopened. Stuff is where I have taken it off and dropped it. The bed isn't made. Nothing seems to have meaning. And you know what, I don't even care. Well, I guess I do or I wouldn't have noted it. But it is just that they say things are so much easier when you have something that you are passionate about. I'm not passionate about anything anymore. Oh sure, I'm still passionate about writing, but I haven't started another book. I write in notebooks and here and on napkins sometime, but everything seems to be as jumbled up as my life is. Little pieces of this and that without any connection. The only connection anything has is it is coming out of my head. What is it that makes life interesting? You'd probably get a million answers and they'd all be different. But what makes my life interesting? Getting up in the morning? Working at Walmart? Reading? I guess of all of them reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle is the most interesting. But life in general? I can't honestly say.