Yesterday Annie told me that she doesn't think anything will ever be normal again.

I think she's right, and I'm rather shaken.

I'm going to france. not normal. When I get back to school my neither my dearest friends nor my love will be near. definitely not normal.

the next year I'll be writing a thesis and graduating. what?

after that, graduate school? marriage? a home?

I want to puke.

I feel as though things are moving too quickly, that I can't remember yesterday well enough, and that my past has become so disintegrated that I can't quite tell what's real or what I've invented.

I love driving by libraries at night. Seeing the shelves lit from behind, the stories and knowledge and wonder shielded by the shadow of soft light. I love knowing that maybe tomorrow, or the next day when the library opens, that a child might check out their first book. That an adult might resign themselves to learning how to read, or that some woe begotten teen might crack open my gatsby.

Really, I love libraries all the time. the freshness in the morning, the familiarity of mid-day, the warm comfort of sunset behind the glass and beside the countless books. I love being there all night, and of still being there in the morning when the sky begins to change.

Of all the misery of homework, paper writing, and finals, I will never hold those grudges over the head of any library. They've loved me too much.