I can't resist the bookshop. It has taken the library's place. Three copies of Jordan Peterson's book lie on the shelf with a slight discount. I bought them all. Why not? Someone is going to need to read it before long. I am poised to go off into a spiritual retreat where I shall cleanse my soul, uplift my soul and come out rising on the wings of eagles, I think HaShem missed Job, so He created me. That's okay. I'm down with Job. I have the patience of Job and his bloody opponent, dogging my heels, but no matter. I cling to the Creator. For future reference, my eyes are bad and I sometimes plonk in a comma when I mean a period, and sometimes, for safe measure, I give you both. My dyslexia prevents me from picking it up when I write in the lamplight, which is not great, but my autism doesn't like bright lights. It is what it is. Giving everything over to HaShem is, or can be, difficult. I have good moments and bad moments, I confess, but I a
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