As per usual, I woke up this morning. Actually that's a lie. I pretended to wake up this morning. I closed my eyes, waited for my butler to come in, then opened them again as he clicked into the room. I even rubbed them- I've heard that's what people do. My butler reminded me I needed to be in my bed rather than reading and sketching to make the illusion of sleep authentic. We're working on it.
As well as the usual papers and printouts from the internet, medical journals (they make me feel superior), and such, there was a manuscript. As in, a novel.
Ah, Gothe. Ah, Nabokov. Ah, Murakami; I thought to myself as my fingerless gloves handled this novel. I started to read it.
By the way, I noticed Chan Marshall is in Paper magazine, or is going to be, or something like that. I'll get an assistant to sort it out, no? Chan is the only woman I ever found sexy. Ever. I think I just may give up on being asexual if she wanted to do the sex. Email me, Chan. email@example.com
No really. Go on. Email uncle. Hmm?
Anyway, I started reading this novel and it's rather good. I would like to publish it. I mean, not on my own label- I'm already busy with that. Autobiography, memoirs, and biography-about-autos-I-ride-in. A few photography books. So email me if you're interested in publishing the novel I received, hmm?
I feel there should be music playing in the morning. Where is the orchestra? I need an orchestra. That's what I'm going to do today, in that case. Find an orchestra to wake up to. Are the Berlin Philharmonic doing anything?