Read only 100 pages. Feel unworthy to live.
Read 200 pages. Wrote.
The sun shines really brightly.
Read 700 pages.
Of complete drivel. A woman my age should not choose her books so carelessly.
Read 300 pages. Wrote something. Life might be bearable, yet.
Was made to go out. Still prefer basement.
Read nothing, wrote some boring stuff.
Might develop bad drinking habit.
Read 400 pages, mostly bullshit.
Wrote a bit.
500 pages a day would make life worth living.
Reading in German means slowness.
Must do something about teh slow.
(Cannibalism? Threats? Magical spells? Look into other possibilities)
Baked. Read almost nothing. Wrote a lot.
Read about 500 pages. Huh.
Went out with W. For a moment, really despised him for making me part with my books, if only for a couple of hours.
Wrote nothing, sadface, sadface, sadface
600 pages; win.
Was reading about relics. Catholic so weird. Teeth, bones, tendons, noses, hands, fingers, nails, pieces of fabric, pieces of wood, hair, innards: anything can be made into a relic and worshipped.
And they say heathens are weird, huh.
Saw a box full of tiny white things. Was sure they were teeth, but in fact: stones brought from the Holy Land.
Relics, fuck relics. Why am I reading about relics?
Losing the already tenuous grasp on reality a distinct possibility.
Read 450 pages. German, fuck German.
(Note to self: correcting mistakes in the translation doesn’t make you read any faster)
Fell asleep at 3.30 am, listening to an audiobook.
Woke up at 8.05 am. Still reading.
Somebody stop meeeee——————–