It was beginning to annoy me, this strong-headed fashion of absolute knowledge devoid of compassion or error. No, not beginning; it had, and I simply ignored it, because I felt that it was beneath me to deal in the convoluted thought of someone so obviously my inferior.
She is an indication of precisely what the world is replete with and what I so greatly and, in a sometimes vaguely hypocritical way, abhorr. It does not matter. Or, at least, it shouldn't. It bothers me more than I should allow.
Dusky twilight, and thoughts of Kierkegaard. Pounding bass of a car languidly crossing the street and hiss of its wheels. The cold air in my house and cusped leaves of flowers seem to multiply in the stillness. It is my second day of summer and already I am growing dissatisfied. How warm my skin is to the touch of the pads on my fingers. Another car. Everything seems so dim, as if seen in the shade of some impossibly large tree. The coarse hair on the nape of my neck bothers me. I haven't ben able to write. I bolded the portions of my story that needed correcting, but have little idea of how to correct it. I think I am too young to really write something penetrating, too young or an owner of too little experience. Fitzgerald wrote "This Side of Paradise" when he was just over twenty - I could never produce something of such maturity now. All I have are silly dreams that are lit with moments of usefullness, nothing really more.