I'm experiencing a rather inconvenient feeling of dread.
My mind feels like a state of loss.
It's not a very nice place to be, at the moment.

I tried reading The Fountainhead to make things better, but strangely a book I fawned over for the whole of yesterday seems stranger to me now and I couldn't even get past 2 pages without feeling restless.

I have a reflection to write but it isn't helping my mind in any way.
In fact, it's increasing my soporific subconsciousness.

Maybe I'm just debilitated.

Even writing seems trite and tiresome.

Sorry for being so dreary.

People

No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.

Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.

And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.

There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.
Whose fate is to survive.

But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

-- Yevgeny Yevtushenko

1. The View -- Bread and Circuses
2. Noah and the Whale -- Last Night on Earth
3. The Vaccines -- What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?

I'm reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand.
I recommend it strongly, along with the 3 albums above.


Sorry, I know I haven't blogged in a while.
I've been sick, busy, and stressed.
Mostly stressed.
I'd like to be happy today!
You too, guys.