(no subject)
A ce moment:
I am a bit tired, drowsy from an early rising. Chilled by the gusts of wind blowing in through the open windows. My tea grows cold. I glance up at the wall, the photo of leonardo's drawing gazes down lovingly, her mouth slightly curved upwards, her eyes calm and steady. The book of chinese philosophy at my side is waiting. I feel a little sad. Not melancholy, just a bit wistful. It will dissappear this evening, if I am carried away by conversation and company. I should like to be Sylvia Beach, who owned the leftbank bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, the haunt of Joyce, Hemingway, Pound, et al.
I don't understand why so many of my courses remind me of the first two years of high school. I suppose its because they're so introductory. But we were drawing cubes in my design class... And french is hideous just like it was with Bowditch a lifetime ago. tiny sighs... little breaths leaving my body, i imagine them lined up like tin soldiers along my windpipe.
I am a bit tired, drowsy from an early rising. Chilled by the gusts of wind blowing in through the open windows. My tea grows cold. I glance up at the wall, the photo of leonardo's drawing gazes down lovingly, her mouth slightly curved upwards, her eyes calm and steady. The book of chinese philosophy at my side is waiting. I feel a little sad. Not melancholy, just a bit wistful. It will dissappear this evening, if I am carried away by conversation and company. I should like to be Sylvia Beach, who owned the leftbank bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, the haunt of Joyce, Hemingway, Pound, et al.
I don't understand why so many of my courses remind me of the first two years of high school. I suppose its because they're so introductory. But we were drawing cubes in my design class... And french is hideous just like it was with Bowditch a lifetime ago. tiny sighs... little breaths leaving my body, i imagine them lined up like tin soldiers along my windpipe.