Languid Pensiveness

Friday night and complete quiet.

Tired, and a new sprinkle of dolefulness is settling in. I guess that's what happens when your diversion turns out to be a fluke and when it didn't even last very long anyway. It's just getting back to that time of year again, and past and present and future are blending together in my tired head so that they seem as stable and well-defined as jell-O. Interestingly enough, though, I haven't had the slightest bit of trouble in falling asleep for all of a month and a half. It's rather counterintuitive.

I'm finding Seymour, An Introduction to be largely pretty dull, except for the excerpts by Seymour himself, which redeem the whole piece entirely and then some. I wish I knew Seymour. I wish I were his brother or sister, I wish I could be close to him so that he could confide in me or spill his thoughts to me on paper. This is silly, I know, because he is a fictional literary character, but how can I help it? He has a beautiful soul, and he breathes poetry without sentiment that is so rich in spirituality. But why take my word for it? I suggest you read it for yourself.

He makes me want to be more alive.