(no subject)
On nights like this one, I just want to read literature and poetry and critiscism and listen to classical music while following along in the score with Johnny. There is enough art in the world that one could spend all of one's free time experiencing, relishing, tasting it. I want to talke bites out of everything. I spit it out if I don't like it. I stop reading after four or so lines. I change the CD track. This way, I can quickly dip through twenty different works, especially flipping through a literary journal. The journey is so sweet, so many flashes spark in my mind; each author rubs its stone harshly against the stone of the preceding author. They combine to make fire. The fire warms my lungs and sears the roof of my mouth. I love it. Then, I have to suck on ice-cold civic theory: Adam Smith, Rousseau. I don't want to write my paper; I want to read poetry and twirl around in a silly hat and fall on my bed dizzy and laughing.
20 minutes later...
Mark just came up. As soon as he got here, I made him spin around in circles with me. At first he looked confused, but then he said, "This is fun." Suddenly, it seemed too much like Titanic to me, so I tackled him onto the bed, which was part of the plan, anyway. There was laughing, but I wanted more laughing, so I tickled him with my face.
20 minutes later...
Mark just came up. As soon as he got here, I made him spin around in circles with me. At first he looked confused, but then he said, "This is fun." Suddenly, it seemed too much like Titanic to me, so I tackled him onto the bed, which was part of the plan, anyway. There was laughing, but I wanted more laughing, so I tickled him with my face.