I swear, every year it's the same routine. In April I tend to get stuck into some bit of Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales are set in April), which leads me to some books with pretty manuscripty pictures, and then I start into calligraphy.
I've spent seven or eight hours writing out the same words: The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
It might as well read All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I adore calligraphy, but man its brain-frazzling powers are mighty. Time for a vodka and some fruit-juicy-type-stuff.
In other news, the sun is just starting to fade, and the sky is all lilacy. Heaven.
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