I picked up the complete works of Keats' at the library today. Not his letters, only his poems.
I simply must start reading things besides my schoolwork or I will go mad with all the hibberish my professors are assigning me. The only classes whose reading I'm enjoying are Literary Criticism and the Hemingway/Mailer seminar. The rest gets to be more like hogwash every day.
But Keats will make it right. He always does.
My piece was chopped in class today, but nicely, so I think I'll be able to continue.
Most of what they said I knew, so I was mentally prepared for the beating.
They really were kind. I'm just over-sensitive.
Today I counted weeks in my datebook. Winsome-Bear is ever homesick and when my polar bear is homesick, I have no hope of happiness. I miss my trees and my writing desk and my books. Oh heavens, how I miss my books.