Got

brouillons, brouillons...

Everything seems to want to tear my away from art history right now. Not that I don't love it, but my dear darling, writing papers is just tedium extraordinaire.

Ah well.

But alas, it must be endured. I'm sitting in the sun right now, by the window in the living room. It's streaming in beautifully, warming my popsicle-stick fingertips which never seem to manage warmth when I'm in my apartment. Place seems like the godammned Arctisk. I'm ready for it though, wrapped in my spidey blanket that I stole from home. I miss home. It calls to me with the fragrant sweetness of a rare wine. Sigh. Home is where the heart is, do they not say? Well, my heart is dead, petrified and preserved somewhere, but home I most definitely do yearn for.

My God the sun feels heavenly. I kid you not, my fingers remind me of Jack Skellington whenever I'm here. 'Twould behoove me to invest in gloves. But I'm stupid, because whenever I'm at a place where there ARE gloves, I somehow convince myself that I don't need them, that I need something else. Like a skirt, or a jacket. Which I have already.

Ok. Well I'd better get back to Bruegel and Poussin, I suppose. Poor old deceased souls are calling me up from the grave.



And then when I'm done with this stupid paper, I'll learn how to play this song, which is great.