Where is the soleil...

Noah says, The storm is coming. I reply, I sure hope because its been dry as hell here.

I can't get that song out of my head, and its making me want to sing it as loud as I possibly can at midnight on Memorial Hill. Somehow I figure that will help me get rid of the worst writer's block to strangle me ever. Or at least it will give me a cold so I don't have to write any more bullshit papers for my seminar.

Or write anymore bullshit in general.

So storm please come... because I can say that I am thundering. I'm being filled with warnings that the storm is coming: a storm of words, a flood of realization, the death of some(thing), the survival of some(one). And I begin to see that these waters aren't drowning anything... they're cleaning.

Sigh. The eternal optimist.