Saturday, May 26, 2012
I read Istanbul, by Orhan Pamuk, a book I had started reading months ago. I read the Times. I read The New Yorker and celebrated its review of Philadelphia's own newly relocated Barnes. I read the first fifty pages of Imagine (and hope to read the rest quite soon). I made a pile of all the other books I plan to read between now and Monday.
And sometimes I slept between pages, and sometimes I daydreamed, and never did I chastise myself for being lazy.
And I wasn't sick this afternoon. And I felt better than I've felt for what has been such a long time.