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Procrastination is a lovely and amazing thing. I can spend all afternoon reading for pleasure and flipping through Stephan's Hieronymous Bosch book, and then ride with the boys to take him to the airport, by way of avoiding the last few dregs of work I have to do for the semester, probably inconveniencing several Ling majors who are writing their final papers on the same subject as I am and need the resources I have. Well, that last part isn't so wonderful, but appreciating the aesthetic superlativity of the ride from the freeway drains guilt and car nausea like pus from a healing boil. I don't think I realized how much stress I was under; I didn't feel it mentally, but my shoulders are in their military lockdown state, which they rarely ever reach. This morning I received approval to cause myself an proportionally larger amount of stress next semester. If I get the leftover this-semester work done soon, I can start on the next-semester work, which would reduce that potential stress significantly.
It's one of those days I am morally bound to appreciate with mortal ferocity, because I know its like will never recur. The chemicals in my brain are convinced that this permutation of sunset, skyline, banter, gaiety, wit, truth, and beauty is unique and unsurpassable. Those were the days, my friend, and they were today and today.
It's one of those days I am morally bound to appreciate with mortal ferocity, because I know its like will never recur. The chemicals in my brain are convinced that this permutation of sunset, skyline, banter, gaiety, wit, truth, and beauty is unique and unsurpassable. Those were the days, my friend, and they were today and today.