The echoes of my own voice tell me lies;
and under the sorrows of this snow of leaves
travels a soul burdened by a million sighs.

Supposed to be reading Woolf's "To the Lighthouse." Nin's "Four Chambered Heart" so much better. Exhausted anyway-how can the weekend be over already?

And when did I trade my dreams for ambitions? When did I stop being (mostly) angry at myself?

I'm reminded again of my fav Kurt Vonnegut quote: "Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which there is no remedy, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything."