I realized with this oddly sick feeling the other morning when I woke up & looked at all the books surrounding me that I don't own any Tolstoy. I feel like I am letting down some unspoken expectations on this front.
Also I am embarrassed to admit that I have never read Macbeth. That's what I should have been doing on these days off from work.
The other day I was walking home from Mischka's & as I passed a building I had previously thought abandoned, I looked into the street-level window & saw a maybe-fifteen-year-old girl sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair playing the cello. She's part of my spring fever.
