An Eden of that dim lake
If the end of my twenty-fifth year bears the inflection of the proximal one, it will be fantastic. Expanding a vocabulary of action, I've been manic. Highlights from the past two weeks include interviewing digital arts students and devising euphemisms like braided the legs of bated butterflies. I've disavowed refractory influence and watched Summer of '42, Zorba the Greek, Network, and a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
This time yesterday I was returning a turtle to its watery home in Cape Hatteras. This time tomorrow I will be driving toward Boston, a trip inspired by the temporal allure of pilgrims, witches, and discursive playfulness.
I need to write sixteen to twenty pages for my grad classes within the next four days, three of which I will not have access to a computer. In other news, it takes a maximum of 37 seconds for the pressed crosswalk button on campus to trigger a red light, psychotropic moods are enhanced by hunger, and I cannot help smirking when someone summons catharsis with remembrance of an idle god.
This time yesterday I was returning a turtle to its watery home in Cape Hatteras. This time tomorrow I will be driving toward Boston, a trip inspired by the temporal allure of pilgrims, witches, and discursive playfulness.
I need to write sixteen to twenty pages for my grad classes within the next four days, three of which I will not have access to a computer. In other news, it takes a maximum of 37 seconds for the pressed crosswalk button on campus to trigger a red light, psychotropic moods are enhanced by hunger, and I cannot help smirking when someone summons catharsis with remembrance of an idle god.