There's so much I want to write about. My grandfather; my trip to Biola; marriage; writing. But I just don't have the time.

I have another ninety-four pages of "Mrs. Dalloway" to read, a five-page short story to revise, and revise, and try to twist into something halfway okay, and a five to seven page English paper that I haven't started, due in six days.

We've hit that point. That part in the semester where nobody really has a lot of energy anymore, nobody really cares that much about school anymore, and every assignment seems like just a little more than we can handle on any kind of normal sleep schedule.

By this time next week, I'll have time to write and blog and think about life again. But right now, I have no choice but to compartmentalize. I can't think about flowers for the wedding; I just have to get this work done.