it is for the better that i stay blank-face tired until the week ends. anyone who’s been around here for a while has seen what good fully-functional alertness has done me. maybe i cannot be trusted with it.
with Derpne, who was home for the day. it was a relief i had no idea i needed until she opened her front door, said “you look like shit,” gave me a hug, and let me inside. we laughed, because nothing can be done about it until after my jury on Friday. but just to be seen and acknowledged as i am makes me feel less like a lunatic than do the people on campus who assume me invincible long after i gave up aping through the days with that particular charade. i do look like shit. i am exhausted, inside and out.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
either by love or no love.
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when if was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.
Hemingway on Fitzgerald (via cephalicimperfections)
in case anyone should wonder what happened to my running career….here it is. clearer and more concise than i could ever write it.