Keats

I still carry my crinkled penguin classic everywhere I go. It folds in every which way and many of the pages are softened, aged and tired with wrinkled creases.
I know it's pretentious. I know it's lame. But my love/lust/agonizing respect and awe for Keats is never ending. Sometimes I open up my little crusty book and he says everything I want to say but so much better than I could ever EVER put it. It's my own little emotional safety net.

To Sorrow / I bade good-morrow, / And thought to leave her far away behind; / But cheerly, cheerly, / She loves me dearly; / She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Ten weeks until I leave!

(Thank FUCK)