Listening to Norah Jones. Looking at my computer in desperation for it to produce some deliverables for class. It is cold in here. My eyes are blurry. Chris emailed me saying he was worried about me today. It is funny that my roommate emails me for our most profound conversations.
I am chatting with someone about existentialism on-line. I mentioned Stranger by Camus, and he claims that Waiting for Godot is the epitome of existentialism. Shall we go? Yes, let's go. (Neither one moves.)
Waiting. I hate waiting. I know what I want, and I have been waiting for it my whole life. It isn't that I don't have patience. It has just run out.
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