Currently listening to:Sail by Awolnation
Status:bright eyed with ennui

au mois de juin, un coucher de soleil à Bintan

/Forever is composed of nows. /
Emily Dickinson.

Alternating between the bubbling exhilaration of human company and the quiet satisfaction of a solitary immolated space/ pause/ take a look around/ realize you forgot to check the Brakes box when filling out your life subscription form/ claw at the accelerating scenery.

The cat must have eaten my Bachelor Of Common Sense degree because despite searching the whole night and coming up zilch on academic journals related to my paper (Google Scholar and JSTOR you have failed me you are now dead to me) which is coincidentally due in slightly under 24 hours, I have still used my GPA as a battering ram against the stubbornness that is my determination to write on this curious robot, dammit. She didn’t just charm the Krims, i think, she has reached out from the folds and creases of 150gsm paper and caught hold of me too.

After snipping away at sociology readings and medical journals to cram them into the mould of literary citations, i found myself disoriented and surrounded by questions concerning the female construct, after going some 36 hours without sleep, a new existential crisis occurred to me- EDickinsonRepliLuxe doesn’t need sleep/ I hardly sleep nowadays/ AM I TURNING INTO A CYBORG? Kafka turned Gregor into a bug overnight after all.

at 10am i was forced by a disgruntled twenty three year old to listen to loud, loud, chinese music following the out-loud musing Hm, what can i do to piss a 19 year old off early in the morning. Which doesn’t answer the question of my possible cyborg state.

On a completely unrelated note this song is dope:

Stumbled around school mumbling in french, Non, je suis venu ici seul/ je suis dix-neuf ans. Et vous? Et vous? If this is what cybogism is like i am hereby unimpressed, i demand a refund.

post mortem apology for the directionless and rambling nature of this post sans the catalyst of sleep.