i am suppose to be writing some creative essay about the pioneers of photography. but i lack creativity today. i want to go home and hide under the covers of my bed. it is too cold outside. my feet are icicles, which never seem to warm up despite the hours they spend warp around socks.
to-do list: find journal: it has gone missing again. i can't allow my unstable thoughts to go off wandering like that. dance: we all need a little movement and loud music. install snow leopard: lets see if it was worth it. pay rent: ... figure out what you are going to be doing tomorrow: overlapping shifts are a real pain. eat: something decent. no junk. read: the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera.
"the writer can only imitate a gesture that is always anterior, never original. his only power is to mix writings, to counter the ones with the others, in such a way as never to rest on any one of them."
"the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author"