Feb. 18th, 2007

not_that_spike: (reading in bed)
He tells himself he's stopped counting the hours, but if he really thinks about it, he knows he can figure out exactly how long it's been. And that's not the way he wants to spend his time. Instead, he's reading: Yeats this time. He's been looking at this poem for what feels like a good half hour, trying to figure it out. There's a lot of legend and mythology shit woven into the guy's work and he doesn't pretend to understand it; in fact, he likes Yeats's later stuff a lot better.

But he takes what he can get, and he can learn all about Cuchulainn some other time. The words are starting to swim on the page anyhow; lying down on the couch, he lets the book cover his face.

Maybe he'll go for a run around the lake. It's just a little bit hard to get motivated, that's all. He's worried, sure, but also... he's bored, and that's depressing. He's never been any damn good at waiting for things to happen.

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not_that_spike

June 2009

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