Friday began with the carry-over of last night's frustration, crystallized by a bad night's sleep and a grey, muzzyheaded morning. I have thus far growled my way through the day, and very carefully separated myself from the Chemistry Class Crew when it came time for the break between class and lab.
They went one way, and I escaped to the haven of the college library. The books of the library can handle me when I'm being like this; other people shouldn't have to.

It was a wrench, giving the James Joyce analysis books back to the librarian. Those books and me, we've been through a lot. We've developed a relationship. We've become friends. And now, my friends are going to go back onto the shelves, where they will sit, mouldering amidst the gathering dust because nobody else in this place will ever give enough of a damn about James Joyce to try and read books about his  books.

I'm strange enough in the head that I'm probably going to visit them from time to time.

I need to stop rereading The Dead, by the way. Gabriel's sense of intellectual-disconnect is beginning to rub off.

Labtime, now.