Maybe.

The aesthetics--they're different. I can't write for this professor. Late at night, when I realize that my intuition is just not the same as his, that I don't think remotely the way he does . . . well, what then? I could slay the text to get what I want, but it'd be an act of calculation, not of love.

Nonstop.

Life is so rampant right now.

I'm really not paying enough attention to anything blogworthy this semester, so I think I'll cut myself some slack and return to productive rambling at a later date months from now.

Anxiety.

I'm so worried about everything.