2098.
April 27th, 2012Boris was a bulky man, and at a glance you would think him capable of great vulgarity. That beard, that voice. But instead he was very thoughtful, in his own way, incredibly polite. He picked up a knife and began to butter his bread. “The English language is always such a great disappointment to me. So limited. It’s not that I’m at a loss for words, it’s that the language is at a loss for words.” He completed the buttering and took a bite, savored it for a moment, then began again. “Just the other day I was sitting on the toilet. There was this women’s magazine that had appeared there several days earlier, and I’d been reading it every day, you know? Well, yesterday I finished looking over this page about making your own ink impressions of leaves and I started flipping through the magazine for something new to read. And then I realized that I had read everything in the magazine. And I began searching for the word, with no success because there is none, for that disappointed feeling you get when you realized you have read all the articles in that magazine you like so much. Everyone feels this. Why isn’t there a word?”