Kaleidoscope eyes.

Some people are like Neil Gaiman's books. Amazing and addictive, taking you to places deep at the back of your mind you didn't even know exist. The problem is, once you're there, going back to wherever you came from would suck. It's like going back to Egypt from Disneyland. (see I feel depressed just writing it down.)

And you can't go on reading Gaiman's books for the rest of you life. Too much of a good thing is toxic. It makes you sick. Or you grow tired and bored of it. Either way you end up hating it and you never want to see/hear/read Gaiman again.

But a couple of Murakami's and Nobokov's later, you start to miss Gaiman. Even Kafka isn't good enough. And you lie down on your bed listening to sad 80's love songs wishing you hadn't left your copy of Coraline at Malaysia. You wish you could have even just a page of it. You try desperately to recall the lines from the book. Because it's always been Gaiman from the start.

Eh I had a point there somewhere three paragraphs ago. I forgot what it was.
Feel free to derive any meaning whatsoever from this...whatever this is.


Anyway, my stomach hurts so bad I swear something's doing a really bad version of Dirty Dancing inside my instestines.

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A little insulting, a lot funny.