I'm tired, now, and I've made myself a cup of hot chocolate--the good stuff from Spain, called Colacao--and turned my radiator on. It isn't as cold as it was when I left Dublin but I like the heat as I get ready for bed and as I get ready in the morning; I just don't leave it on all night now.
Back to the world of being naive and socially awkward and perpetually absentminded. Back to the world of deafness, of semi-blindness, of trying to pass off a hundred and two confidences I don't have in myself. It sounds a little melodramatic, I know; in fact, I must sound quite emo to you. But since you are reading THIS blog rather than my creative writing one, you must want to know. And so, in Pythonic Damsellian tones, I'll tell you . . .
My lovely and well-comforted copies of The Four Loves and The City of Dreaming Books are nested with other books of my affection. I expect I shall spend time gazing into them if I can find the time to relax and read anything but textbooks. Which is not a bad thing, by the way. I like our textbooks. We get to read all the old stories. We know where the real books are.
Below is a playlist I made up of music I've been listening to lately.
The Dress Looks Nice On You (Sufjan Stevens)
Better Together (Jack Johnson)
Wrapped Up In Books (Belle and Sebastian)
Red Right Ankle (The Decembrists)
Lullaby (Jack Johnson)
I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You (Colin Hay)
To Be Alone With You (Sufjan Stevens)
At Least It Was (Emiliana Torrini)