There's this excruciating desire to juice literature out of my system that despite the raving examinations in a few days time, I decidedly stepped away from the boredom that is Accounting and the hassle that is Anatomy. As Ingrid Michaelson's You And I sets the mood this afternoon, I sit here in infinite relaxation while my phalanges do some action.
And I felt power - a quiet surge of energy, resurrection (maybe?) and slight tinge of remorse as I remembered that failed quiz that I vow to avenge. But more so, I felt liberation-that despite how short this post is, this provided me the necessary breather to go on moving and ensure myself that I'm still a live organism that devours Murakami and farts some of it sometimes.
Mushrooms. Some grow on cow poop but they still look uber cute. I think life and literature are like that sometimes, cute despite the shit below. And random. Decidedly random.