fight fight fight, rah rah rah

I'm within spitting distance of the end of Atlas Shrugged. I admit, I skimmed over 40 pages of the transcription of a 3 hour radio broadcast, but I don't think I missed too much.

In any case, I'm within spitting distance of the end and sleep is climbing rapidly to claim me. For the next few pages I'm going to sit on the floor of my office and hope discomfort will keep me attentive.




I like the book and think it's a great thing to be read and discussed among curious people who aren't in it to change minds. But I'm ready for it to be over.

There are sooty marks on some of my fingers from rubbing against the cheap ink on cheap paper. One thousand pages in a week or less... is that something to be proud of?