I can't, for all my years, think of a book better than this one. I can't, since I am currently busy reading another book that is better than this one. I merely type this in subconscious idleness, brought on by the terminal monotony from this murderous manifesto of mundane, which still afflicts me after two months, and requires me to either comment about it or consistently read quality literature to help me forget, to forget it all...
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