I think if I ever have a child, I will name him or her Echo.

Nothing entirely incredible to report, other than that I have a slight fever. Though, it could be because it's somewhere near ninety degrees Fahrenheit outside my dorm room window.

I've had to change my shirt twice today because I've sneezed and left splotches of mucus on near the bottom of said shirts.

In a little over an hour, I have to take a quiz on the different physical components of a digital camera. I'm not entirely nervous, and that's not because I've studied. It's just because I feel I retain knowledge fairly well, and my professor already went over each of the different components... I'm not sure I really feel like I need to review. I probably will, though.

This room is in desperate need of a good vacuuming. My clothes are in need of a good washing. I ought to take care of my laundry tomorrow. Maybe I'll even wash my bedding. Probably not, though.

I think if all goes well and according to plan, Mike should be out here again this weekend. I don't think I'll be sick anymore, by the time he gets out here. My chest is already de-congesting, my nose is running an awful lot. I've been pretty good about taking vitamin c and the like.

I wish I had something deep or profound to write; my words have been pretty shallow, lately. It's like the roots to my creative side have been three-hole-punched and put in a binder I forgot to bring on my move back to DeKalb. I also think a lot of it has to do with me feeling like I'm kind of like our planet Earth... where my rotation is tilted, I'm teetering on some sort of vacuum. That vacuum is the uncertainty of a meltdown, and I seem to write my "best" stuff when I'm doing something that I feel isn't really all that great or when I'm really sad. That being said, I don't really feel like I'm too terribly sad right now.

It's almost as if I'm looking at someone else's creations of sadness... A sandcastle, soaked together with sadness or some sort of solar system paper-maché, sopped together with newspaper marinated in sad, sorry water. I appreciate all of these creations, I really enjoy them, because I've been and will undoubtedly be a creator of such things, again. (After having had some trouble with that last sentence, I'm now surer than ever that I sell self-fulfilling prophecies.) In any case, these people with these pitiful, janky, asymmetrical, scratched and cracked formations, I'll always welcome them into my heart--there's something about the nature of a sad person that isn't sad. Maybe it's just the way I can feel everything I say to them... echo inside their always-dilated pupils.

I understand that it's rather selfish or arrogant to want to hear this echo that almost glows against the hairs inside your ears, but dammit... That echo seems to croon or serenade with a slow moving, oceanic slack and drag... It's better than any night spent alone feeling sorry for yourself while listening to your favourite music or watching your favourite movie or doing your favourite anything.

I think if I ever have a child, I will name him or her Echo.