Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,’”

“What does it matter what it’s called?” she continues. “You’ve got your restrooms and your food. Your fluorescent lights and your plastic chairs. Crappy coffee. Strawberry-jam sandwiches. It’s all pointless—assuming you try to find a point to it. We’re coming from somewhere, heading somewhere else. That’s all you need to know, right?” I nod. And nod. And nod.

Back in my room I jot down what I did that day in my diary, listen to Radiohead on my Walkman, read a little, and then it’s lights out at eleven. Sometimes I masturbate before going to sleep.

So me