I have this feeling everybody just... disappeared recently and nobody had warned me. What's happening? Even my seemingly unchangeable Sherly is acting a little weird. All her slim little self wrapped in secrets and mystery.
I read too much. I've never thought I'd ever say it (although people always say it to me) but this time I know all those books can do me no good. I don't read proper things (like astronomy), that's the problem. That's because I'm tired. I'm tired, and I drink insane amounts of coffee, and my hands tremble because of that, and I have a feeling I'm missing something, that It's too late to do... something important, I don't know what. Or maybe I do.
If i could write, i would write about those wonderful books i read. I would find somebody who would listen to me and find my words interesting. And i would write about wonderfully strange people around me, every one of them a little mad in their own unique way.
But i can't. And i want to write, and this need to talk tears me up inside, and i can't. That's my problem.