… Mr. Cogito worked in a very large publishing house, in a surpassingly large city, in an amusingly small apartment, in the least desirable part of a more desirable neighborhood, with far too many books, on a comedically penurious salary. He was given to dreamy and unmanageable reveries– of moving to Europe, become a chef, starting a newspaper, opening a bookstore, of painting miniature paintings, getting a dog, deleting all his email, marrying for love.
Mr. Cogito likes to stay anonymous, since he’s a cog in a ravenous, book-making machine, a machine that frowns on public diaries. A peon, Mr. Cogito is truly tops. But since his corner of employment is rapidly dissolving– like a clump of seawall decamped into the bay– he’s decided to talk about it, for whoever wants to read. It makes Mr. Cogito feel better.
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