I don’t enjoy waiting. One of my gripes with social media. Been having a few demerits to voice of technology’s advancements, of late. Currently, sipping a Pinot from Russian River. So soothing, amazingly anesthetizing. Not sure where the night will move my syllables, but I tap with anticipation. With this very sip, thinking of winter vacation. Is that bad? My classes, chiseling my being, mind, sight, very nucleus.
Still uploading. Viginia Woolf never had to deal with this. Plath, Austen, Poe, Emerson. What has happened to us? To me? We used to be contemplative, unruffled. Now, we gyrate for immediacy.