Wearing mittens, I fumble with my psychopharm note-cards, and drop all 187 of them into a snow bank. The moon waxes as I walk home and the snow glitters like it's absorbing the moon's essence. As I fall into bed, I hear three-part harmony wafting up through the ventilation system because someone's recording music in the basement. I set three alarms so I can get to the Rec Center at 6:30 a.m. for my Frisbee scrimmage, and then I read Clifford Geertz's theory of religion as a cultural system over fried eggs so I can have something intelligent to say in class... which started a minute ago. There is a sub-wufer in my kitchen. My housemate installs surround sound and we dance to Michael Jackson and eat of a massive batch of vegetarian chili. (I'm talking four tablespoons of cumin.) During the Olympics, we argue about whether the hockey man impacting the wall creates a standing wave or a time-dependent wave, and I'm soo tired but I have seven pages to write for tomorrow and I really feel like I need to write in my journal. I make quick coffee dates and nap on library couches, and can scarcely believe it when loving cardinal couples chirp bravely of spring as they poke their way through the snowdrifts. I laugh so hard that I cry, and I run out to the wind turbine when it's above 20 degrees. The bright-white winter sun burns my eyes, it smells like the Malt-O-Meal factory is making off-brand Co Co Puffs, and I wonder about truth. I wonder whether I should feel guilty about wondering about truth, given that a significant portion of the world is starving. I'm late for something again. I need to start that paper.
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