  a whole lot more of reading to do... so now, some more writing: I suppose theres a freedom is being under the weather. I can excuse my desire to stay in bed and sleep for an excessive amount of time as being a measure of taking care of myself, not merely the behavior of a sloth or recluse. A cat, maybe. Ive got one black furball lounging casually in the sun streaked portion of the room. If I could stand light on me while I sleep, Id crawl over there and curl up next to him. Ive reached a saturation point with the Virginia Woolf diaries.
They no longer strike me with the same power as the first 100 pages seemed to bring. Perhaps thats just because I read them all at once, more or less. Entries spanning years, topics repeating themselves as time wears on and different books are published. So now Ive finished the 160p necessary for class tomorrow, aware that I still need to read her Complete Shorter Fiction by tomorrow night as well. I need to change it up though. For today, at least. Too much from one voice creates a hard of hearing effect in me; the familiarity wears the texture away like a piece of smooth glass too long spent churning in the tides.
I have some Biology reading to do. Surprisingly enough, that sounds like a welcomed respite from Woolf. Something concrete and factual, involve the other half of my brain. A complete departure from being steeped in the inner world of a creative genius and troubled madness. 
