Think of me waking silent and resigned

Boy don't try to front
I know just, just what you are

Pop music is a disease people. It crawls into your brain and rots there. True fact.

I have the worst.bloody.headache. It's refused to leave me alone all day. Bah. I have however persisted, and in some haphazard way, vaccuumed and tidied up about the place. Spare room is also now prepared.

I have to admit the itinerary I have concocted is rather lacklustre. I figured we'd play it by ear. The only things I have that are locked in is a gig and a show at the Opera House. Oh and the laser tag outing Em has organised which appears to be falling apart at the seams, but still. Also think the rocks pub tour is a good way to go. This leaves us with a number of options of exploring the city (of course), and trips to the mountains, possibly Canberra. Or something. Whatever. The main thing is we get to hang.

Unfortunately it appears that uni work will be inescapable during this time, but we'll work around it. As the Enter Shikari song says, no s-s-s-w-e-a-t.

I saw this DH Lawrence short story entitled 'The Captain's Doll' in Basement Books, and while I only read the ending, it caught my attention. Unsurprisingly, because I'm an idiot.

I find the notion of Cotard's syndrome fascinating. I feel there is a story in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.

I'm trying to convince my dad he doesn't want to watch the rugby, instead he wants to watch RocknRolla with me. I'm losing.

As I continue to persist in this task, have some random poetry:

Promise me no promises,
So will I not promise you:
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go:
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one:
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass,
And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again:
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain.
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less:
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess

[Promises like pie-crust ~ Christina Rossetti]

Music: Think of me - Emmy Rossum
Mood: Hungry