not the kind of book one rates as it is not a book much in the literary sense, but a diary, a private confession to oneself. I read this on the bus and on the train, at the kitchen table over tea, and on benches waiting for lyfts, consumed it as though it were a packet of M&Ms, wishing I could slow down and accord to each line my eyes fell on the weight of the event that it described—a shift at McDonalds, a hookup in a bowling alley bathroom, a night's sleep behind a bush—but I found Sean’s life so addicting in its quickness, it seemed I was rightly gaining something in not reading it so fastidiously. It’s a question I ask myself all the time as a journal-keeper in different ways, and in different words: how quickly to read it, how quickly it should read, how not to lose the beauty in the speed. I would love to, for example, read this an entry a day, day for day, running the line of Sean’s life parallel to mine so as to feel the days and months that passed in and between entries. Maybe next year starting where his diary starts, the first of January, I will. It’s the kind of work one never finishes reading or wondering about, as it’s, like any diary, inevitably circumstantial and wears its quotidian shackles unlike a novel, which demands greater mobility from an author, thus harsher adaptations. With a journal, one never really knows why they wrote this line or that line that way. Maybe they only had the language or time to account for half the day they had, and maybe they were dead tired and even misremembered that half. I was reading for those moments of ambiguity and slips in the language, many of which I couldn't crack and had to abandon. It was a privilege anyhow to have had this and learned about Sean in his own words. My curiosity about them, having only finished the book some hours ago in a TSA line, spills over all the more.