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There is more to the daily routine than drifting off to dreamland. I felt rejuvenated after a calming sojourn to the bookstore. The temperatures aren’t exactly in the twenties since that bit of sun last week but it’s summer and one couldn’t tell the difference between three pm and six pm. I tried inhaling the scents of words and poetry. I didn’t particularly buy anything substantial, merely brushing my fingers on the works of the existentialists; Nietzsche, Kafka, Jean Paul-Sartre. I wouldn’t have the time at the moment to delve deeper into Dostoyevsky or Simone de Beauvoir. I changed my mind in picking up a copy of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. I barely have the time to engage in my diurnal itinerary which sometimes doesn’t include reading fiction. All around cleaning and folding clothes overpower the literary pursuits, including blogging my heart out which barely resembles anything savvy or erudite. One day I’ll finish the tome I’m reading at hand. It’s just not going to be with this week.