You're Les Miserables!
by Victor Hugo
One of the best known people in your community, you have become
something of a phenomenon. People have sung about you, danced in your honor, created all
manner of art in your name. And yet your story is one of failure and despair, with a few
brief exceptions. A hopeless romantic, you'll never stop hoping that more good will come
from your failings than is ever possible. Beware detectives and prison guards bearing
vendettas.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The Book Quiz from Blue Pyramid
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Boredom
She just had to read in the bathroom.
However desperate she was for the toilet, she first dashed for a book or magazine. While in the shower she read, holding her book in one hand, and then in the other... till she eventually had to put it down to dry herself.
In the event she forgot to grab a book on her way in, she read the backs of shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes and toilet cleaner. Words she has now memorized, purely because of the number of times she's read them.
It's a habit... it keeps her from getting bored. That's what she says.
However desperate she was for the toilet, she first dashed for a book or magazine. While in the shower she read, holding her book in one hand, and then in the other... till she eventually had to put it down to dry herself.
In the event she forgot to grab a book on her way in, she read the backs of shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes and toilet cleaner. Words she has now memorized, purely because of the number of times she's read them.
It's a habit... it keeps her from getting bored. That's what she says.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Waiting
I buy paper.
To write on.
Reams of emptiness waiting to be filled.
They say nature abhors a vacuum.
Virgin white vacuum yearning to be defaced by black, red, blue.
And a hand... clicks a pen.. On.. Off... On... Off.
Waiting for words to come.
How ironic is it that I'm writing about my inability to write?
To write on.
Reams of emptiness waiting to be filled.
They say nature abhors a vacuum.
Virgin white vacuum yearning to be defaced by black, red, blue.
And a hand... clicks a pen.. On.. Off... On... Off.
Waiting for words to come.
How ironic is it that I'm writing about my inability to write?
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