I have a lot to say and everyone's asleep

Good literature has no substitute. I had a discussion today with a fellow law student about the importance of literature--I mean, serious lit: Shakespeare. Joyce. Marlowe. Chaucer. Woolf. Hemmingway. These people still impact our culture, pop culture, every other book or character is a rivulet off the main torrent.

I spent the next hour delving into the wikipedia web, following reference after reference, swimming in a sea of loosely knit information...until my mind exploded. Faulkner, Blood Meridian, Iago, Machiavellian, Fight Club, Lear, Marx, Rousseau, consumerism, nihilism, Pynchon, Stein, Paris, jazz, Casablanca, Lewis, The Godfather, existentialism.... Beautiful.

Yes...I am a literary nerd. But in my correct opinion, literary nerds were always cool anyways. They could get away with never shaving, wearing biodegradable clothes and sandals, worshipping the earth like Celtic pagans, and spend hours at urban bookstores. If you really want to know how deep my soul goes (deeper than bones), here's a peek: My dream house (and Jes's, of course) will contain a library:

This magnificent library in my dream house is furnished with large plush chairs, stacks of hardbound leather books, towering mahogany shelves, rolling ladders, bonsai trees, high circular windows, a dome skylight, hundreds of tiny lamps, more bonsai trees, large shag rugs, ancient wooden floors, giant french doors leading out into a lush garden with a fountain in the middle like on Much Ado About Nothing, then a great expanse of grass that suddenly ends at some high Dover-like cliffs being pummeled by the ocean waves. And on the grassy cliff will sit a hand carved wooden bench where I'll read poetry to Jes while the sun sinks into the darkening sea.

That's the rough idea, I'm still trying to flesh it out.

Here's to dreams.