Cold

It is getting dark at seven in the evening and I am awaiting winter's onslaught. My iPod battery died when the sky was fuzzing into twilight. There are galaxy caramel fingerprints on my keyboard and I woke up in a pile of orange peel this morning. I have £3.76 in my bank account and a library fine that knocked £18.60 out of me. I am typing in my dimly lit room and feeling a sense of melancholy wash over me. I blame Barthes.

'The Ghost Ship

errance / errantry

Though each love is experienced as unique and though the subject rejects the notion of repeating it elsewhere later on, he sometimes discovers in himself a diffusion of amorous desire; he then realizes he is doomed to wander until he dies, from love to love.'

A Lover's Discourse.