Unsworth out of hiding

Hydrochloric Acid? It is what the Russians used.

Issue: I might not have the manual dexterity not to burn my thigh off, but the good news is this: I hid my Stone Virgin edition so the inadvertent dope fiend would not take it, in the pet supplies yellow coarse weave carry bag, hanging on my useless manual wheelchair. Scorched earth soul appeased. I can delete Karina's number from my Apple, remembering articles read about picture phones in the 70's, but those concepts weren't Skype, nor Steve Jobs and his touch interface fetish. Karina called me back, despite my constant indictment of her behavior. I take no pleasure in the continual accusation, as she was not exploiting me the way the sisters do.

I remember Ebert's 30 second discussion of The Constant Gardner, before silence clutched him. I am fighting the desire to cry over the infamous critic, and that conjures my email to Hitchens. Neither Ebert nor Hitchens ever replied to me, but I fancy inferences, though those could be erroneous, I avoided the film like the plague, knowing the British penchant for moralizing and fastidious faith in red tape, and should have continued to avoid the film, like the plague, and right now, we're not going to discuss it, suffice to say here is a radical idea: Everyone get the fuck out of Africa and let Africans solve their own problems. 

In another life, Ralph Fiiennes is the husband I wanted, however. He would not have failed to protect me, to make me happy, and that sorrow is my beaker's jagged edge. Le Carre is adept at characters, fully fleshed, driving his plots, but at the end of the day, his pessimism is another shovel of dirt in our graveyard, like my internal struggle to stop writing for Examiner. I log on to send them a tag, quit, and then realize it is a crock, and I can slow to an inexorable crawl, in search of another venue.