In the immediate future (currently).

Reading:
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Whip It by Shauna Cross
The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Pages this week: 191
all semester: 191 + 958 = 1149

Sentences of the week:


And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders.

What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.

You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.

If only my heart were stone.

If only hearts were made of stone. There would be none of those pesky feelings, no need for tears, no lumps in my throat. But that is life in ailment-form-- so without these, without those little pricks of tears or the pounding of my heart or the headaches from frustation and anger-- I wouldn't know I was alive. I admit, whenever I am down with one of those symptoms, I find myself wishing for a little bit of numbness . . . but it'd be terrible to feel nothing. I'd resemble some cold-hearted Hitler, or rather, a heartless nazi. I'd stop caring about everything.

Yeah, I don't really know what I'm talking about... just rambling on about stony hearts, so that I fulfill the requirement of talking about a 'sentence of the week.'