cells multiplying
I make attempts at reading Before I Die every now and then. (It was the book that stole my heart in London, the pictures of the girl in mid-jump, floating, the title, the idea, the spaces between the paragraphs in the final chapters.) Once more I am blinded by tears when I'm halfway through the second chapter. It feels silly. And I can't help it.
And today I bought too many books (eight), realised I probably will go crazy if I don't study at all next year (and I may just have a horribly simple, beautiful answer, one given to me by a girl I went to school with at terribly early morning at a film festival), and my father remembered me for the first time in the last nineteen years (and I him).
He sent me a book of poetry by my favourite poet. I wonder who told him.
And today I bought too many books (eight), realised I probably will go crazy if I don't study at all next year (and I may just have a horribly simple, beautiful answer, one given to me by a girl I went to school with at terribly early morning at a film festival), and my father remembered me for the first time in the last nineteen years (and I him).
He sent me a book of poetry by my favourite poet. I wonder who told him.