Everyone is Talking About Everything

The world did revolve slowly sometime between Saturday and Sunday this weekend, when we were piled on the floor and nothing moved. We re-had old conversations, concluded that men ought to read and be beautiful, and I'm told we had a serious popcorn fight. I pulled out Father's old atlas of human anatomy last week, and poured over it, cross-legged and with a steaming cup of coffee. There are endless bones, crevices and tissues connecting my arms to my torso, and torso to the brain. The linea mediana anterior is without a doubt my favourite anatomical feature, and now I know what it is called. Although it will always be the 'dividing line' in my head. I wonder what it feels like to trace it with a scalpel, through skin and fat.

I'm working on a new theory of friendships: there is a point where you need to have drunken conversations about life, the universe and everything at 3 am. This stage must be passed, along with exposing any embarrassing, or not easily visible, tattoos.

Sleepwalking through A Passage to India (E.M. Forster for a class, attempting to savour Point Omega (DeLillo), haven't had the heart to start Monsieur Pain (Bolaño) yet. Supposed to read Waiting for Godot, but I never succeeded in falling asleep during the play – I think I can pass that off as seeing it? – and am relying on sparknotes. And a poor friend for whom I took notes on 'Combray' (Proust, part one of In Search of Lost Time), who feels she owes me something in return.

Everyone is Talking About Everything

The world did revolve slowly sometime between Saturday and Sunday this weekend, when we were piled on the floor and nothing moved. We re-had old conversations, concluded that men ought to read and be beautiful, and I'm told we had a serious popcorn fight. I pulled out Father's old atlas of human anatomy last week, and poured over it, cross-legged and with a steaming cup of coffee. There are endless bones, crevices and tissues connecting my arms to my torso, and torso to the brain. The linea mediana anterior is without a doubt my favourite anatomical feature, and now I know what it is called. Although it will always be the 'dividing line' in my head. I wonder what it feels like to trace it with a scalpel, through skin and fat.

I'm working on a new theory of friendships: there is a point where you need to have drunken conversations about life, the universe and everything at 3 am. This stage must be passed, along with exposing any embarrassing, or not easily visible, tattoos.

Sleepwalking through A Passage to India (E.M. Forster for a class, attempting to savour Point Omega (DeLillo), haven't had the heart to start Monsieur Pain (Bolaño) yet. Supposed to read Waiting for Godot, but I never succeeded in falling asleep during the play – I think I can pass that off as seeing it? – and am relying on sparknotes. And a poor friend for whom I took notes on 'Combray' (Proust, part one of In Search of Lost Time), who feels she owes me something in return.