Enumerations and.
I am going insane. Tomorrow is the Big Move, and there's a bunch of boxes lying around the house, a lot of things missing, and omg the dust. Dust everywhere. Dust--which I'm fatally allergic to.
I just spent the good part of the past 24 hours with numbers. Ugly ones. Computing, recomputing, and sorting them until they made the tiniest bit of sense.
Next week I'll be running purely on caffeine. 3 exams, 1 oral report, 1 paper. Obviously, this journal will be hibernating until further notice.
By the way, I love the guys on American Idol. Especially the one with the minor lisp AND the crazy grey-haired dude. XD
ETA: Also dumping some crap stuff I entered for some contests at quibbler_elite, knockturn_elite, and goblet_elite. None of which placed, by the way. Blargh.
Time Never Ripens
Blaise misses the familiarity. The delicate care with which Snape had always handled his bottle green of perplexing mixes of potions. Sometimes, Blaise misses too much, and he winces when Slughorn’s too plump fingers smother them. There’s no magic there, he thinks.
Beyond the cauldron smoke, Weasley’s hair turns into a strange mix of coppery orange in the low, late afternoon sunlight. These days, the colors are blurred into a dull platter. Just like the weather is confused in the February fohn.
He remembers picking the lint off Draco’s velvet overcoat. Change is never good.
Is it time yet?
Soon.
I just spent the good part of the past 24 hours with numbers. Ugly ones. Computing, recomputing, and sorting them until they made the tiniest bit of sense.
Next week I'll be running purely on caffeine. 3 exams, 1 oral report, 1 paper. Obviously, this journal will be hibernating until further notice.
By the way, I love the guys on American Idol. Especially the one with the minor lisp AND the crazy grey-haired dude. XD
ETA: Also dumping some crap stuff I entered for some contests at quibbler_elite, knockturn_elite, and goblet_elite. None of which placed, by the way. Blargh.
Time Never Ripens
Blaise misses the familiarity. The delicate care with which Snape had always handled his bottle green of perplexing mixes of potions. Sometimes, Blaise misses too much, and he winces when Slughorn’s too plump fingers smother them. There’s no magic there, he thinks.
Beyond the cauldron smoke, Weasley’s hair turns into a strange mix of coppery orange in the low, late afternoon sunlight. These days, the colors are blurred into a dull platter. Just like the weather is confused in the February fohn.
He remembers picking the lint off Draco’s velvet overcoat. Change is never good.
Is it time yet?
Soon.