so many territories

Emily stitched leaves together and hung them from our ceiling. They look magical, or "so very Anthropologie," as Sarah H. put it.

I am not actually enjoying Faulkner that much, which makes me feel a little guilty, because I know I'm supposed to, raving about stream of consciousness and all that jazz. But this isn't really stream of consciousness. It's like a waterfall of consciousness, and sometimes, it's just too much.

On Monday, while I was in the newsroom, I overheard one of the editors talking to a new reporter, a girl who recently fled Venezuela because of the intense violence. The editor asked her if it was true that kidnappings were common, and the girl said, "Yes, they are, they're called 'express kidnappings,' because when you stop your car in the street, people will jump in and grab you."
"Really? And then what?"

"They hold you for ransom for a little while until your parents can pay it."
"Oh, so it's not like, scary, or anything?"
A blank look from the Venezuelan girl.
"No. It's very scary. It's a kidnapping."

Duh, DTH, duh.

I decided yesterday that, if I have time, I want to take basic French senior year.

Lately I have been uncommonly productive. This will only last a few days, though, so I'm trying to enjoy it while I can.

I mean, it's just really persuasive. Because I have never been so deeply terrified by a wink before.

“At the approach to the bridge, in the smell of the little restaurant kitchens, there was a confusion of streetcars, of people waiting to board them, of carts crossing the bridge. It suddenly seemed to me that, coming from an inn with this woman, I had nothing to do with a world that had gone on moving without me. The world and I were controlled by separate destinies, taking us in separate directions. A sort of quiet always came over me at evening, but this time the quiet was as of a complete loss of strength, and it brought with it a vague, indefinable sadness. I was not especially sorry to say good-bye to the woman. Nor did I regret a day spent in dissipation. Nor was it that the flowing of the waters somehow moved me. I had exhausted the man-made pleasures that a city has only for those born in it, and now, in the wake of the dream, it was as though I were looking back over the whole long series of dreams.” -- Nagai Kafu, "The Peony Garden"