every time i read a book of this ilk, i swear at its conclusion that i will never read another book of this ilk. yet here i am years later, rifling through the pages, subconsciously noting the number of times i furrow my brow or think "what?!? that so couldn't happen". this condition is called recidivism. basically, as a younger fellow, i devoured these books staying up till i'd see the sun cutting through the slats of my bamboo blinds only to sleep through first, second and third periods hours later. i reckon it's something as simple as exposure and reality that make it difficult to enjoy the likes of king or straub anymore. for me, reminiscence makes this hard given i have more sentimentality in my body than i have water. and, because of this i too occasionally venture to my roots in attempt to experience this sense of youth once again. all that doesn't matter though because after reading this quasi-respectable effort for its genre, i'm totally done. for good. baked. i swear. never again. and i could'nt mean this any more than i do.

see you in a couple of years.