1Q84 is sitting there, next to my bed, fresh and pure and tantalizing. I know that I will love it, as I love everything Murakami writes. I can smell it, wafting over me at night, spilling into my dreams and teasing me gently with sweet promises of long nights and synaesthetic delights. It is everything I want.

And yet…

Here I am, forgotten and forlorn, struggling through another stack of cases and another stack of briefs. Fie upon thee, thou makers of innocent misrepresentations! For shame, thou negligent doctors and drivers and devisors of lifeguarding signs! I care not for thee, idiot counsel who ignores fifteen different court orders! The Ballad of Moccasin Badger, the Little Horse Who Bucked leaves my sympathies cold and uncaring in my desk chair. Thou wouldst demand of me my time and care and mind at all hours of all days! Enough! No more! I bite my thumb at thee, law school!

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