half-closed honey-colored eyes.
A fall day. Lounging around all morning in my green Salwar, finishing Northanger Abbey and wondering where the hours go.
I love the crispness. It takes away the gloom of the impending chill in the air.
Last night Jon and I saw George Winston in concert. The music began and I was everywhere and there. I saw high school friends, wrote poems and novels, sat on a porch in the deep South with a fat lady in a yellow gingham dress fanning herself with a booklet, embarrassed myself with middle school crushes, and drank pink punch on a Caribbean coast while the little kids tumbled in the tide - laughing and filling their suits and ponytails with exotic sand. I forgot I was there and that is the amazing part.
Though by no accounts did I waste the morning, I regret not getting up earlier. I regret this most days because by the end I have only minutes and so much more to do. But that is the problem... because I stay up late with Catherine in the rotting corner of Northanger Abbey contemplating ghouls and murderous prospective fathers-in-law.
So now I will postpone Jon's arrival and insist that I be given enough time to run, get my hair cut, finish unpacking my room, and read that infernal Burke so as to tease my mind into writing a thesis.
I love the crispness. It takes away the gloom of the impending chill in the air.
Last night Jon and I saw George Winston in concert. The music began and I was everywhere and there. I saw high school friends, wrote poems and novels, sat on a porch in the deep South with a fat lady in a yellow gingham dress fanning herself with a booklet, embarrassed myself with middle school crushes, and drank pink punch on a Caribbean coast while the little kids tumbled in the tide - laughing and filling their suits and ponytails with exotic sand. I forgot I was there and that is the amazing part.
Though by no accounts did I waste the morning, I regret not getting up earlier. I regret this most days because by the end I have only minutes and so much more to do. But that is the problem... because I stay up late with Catherine in the rotting corner of Northanger Abbey contemplating ghouls and murderous prospective fathers-in-law.
So now I will postpone Jon's arrival and insist that I be given enough time to run, get my hair cut, finish unpacking my room, and read that infernal Burke so as to tease my mind into writing a thesis.