impenetrable unself.

As I was completely, utterly absorbed in Beckett's complete short prose, which has been doing an Okay job at distracting me from the horror of the evening, I found a bookmark I had evidently made in high school. On it, I'd drawn a brontosaurus eating a twig. I only vaguely remember drawing it and somebody finding it adorable, but it was finally something that made me smile.

Somehow, remembering self is so genuine and fulfilling when it seems like all that's left to remember is the unself.