Dull. Boring. This harrowing task of stuffing yourself with knowledge decidedly impractical to you be it at present or the forseaeble future. I'm moaning about formal education instead of posting a poem because I've been working on one but kinda got stuck mid-way. It's just not painting the picture I wish it to. I even copied the rubbish I typed down while half-asleep (my idea of a hemingway haha) on cheap blue-coloured writing paper, hoping it would be easier for me to fix the disparity and finally spit out something, which I hope (as I always do with whatever I write) would appease, satiate this hunger for...*insert whatever* that plagues me. Until next time. Meanwhile I'll just lie still and drown myself in Chopin.

p.s. I've started reading Sartre's Nausea. So far every other page makes me feel like slapping Roquentin or just shoot him in the face. Physically harm him. Ugh.