"the writer must not destroy by human reasonings the faith that art requires of us"

I am hopeless at updating when I say I will. I know this, you know this, it is what it is. So with that in mind, in the past three weeks since term began (three weeks already, fuck) I have...gone to the Exeter Ball, seen Martin Sheen speak at the Oxford Union, gone to the Keble Ball, celebrated Minnie's 20th birthday in style, taken a trip to the fabulous John Radcliffe emergency room, gone to Dublin, submitted my senior thesis proposal, figured out my summer plans, celebrated Mayday, attended Wadstock....there's always something.

Reading Borges while hopped up on multiple antihistamines is a strange experience. I hate that I feel like I lost so much of this week, because I already feel like the days are flying by. But what can you do. At least my tutors were sympathetic. I always manage to get shit done. But yes. Borges. Bizarre dreams of waking and not waking--or not being able to wake up, and freaking out about that. I wish I had been able to absorb more of what I read; as it is, I feel like I just got a cursory idea. He likes mind games, paradoxes, cowards and heroes. The idea of what happens when the last person to witness anything dies. What you lose. Labyrinths, the idea of it all being a fiction, one choice determining another--or us already being other's predetermined choices. The idea of what if none of it is real, or if it all is. Very metaphysical, and hard to discuss when you don't feel all that lucid.

It's so weird that back in the States, everyone is almost done.

I wanted to say, "take a chance on me. I'm worth it."

But life isn't like that, is it? No.