Not Monday, Sunday.
Two days 'til it kicks off and I am wading through Coleridge. And yet, it seems that there is not really enough. I have plenty really. I am beginning to panic, really wishing I had a photographic memory. That I had Bernard's watch; stopping time would be really useful right now. I can't write! And I can't ingest these books. Oh. It's not the work, the reading and the theories and the inference and all those sorts of things, just the time. But I don't suppose anyone has enough time really. Must make better use. It's something I will definitely remember. Make sure of it. A list will probably follow. Lots of love chickens

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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