i have been trying to finish Bukowski’s Ham on Rye since November. it’s not that it’s bad; maybe i just don’t have the time. the problem is, the book isn’t mine. i can’t risk returning the book unfinished, living the rest of my life not knowing what happened to Henry, his bad temper, and his foul mouth.

for now the book sits nest to my bed, a blank guest check (No. 798254) folded in half saving my place, only a hundred pages away from my destiny.