*is ded*

[melayneseahawk]

Mother Courage is a singularly depressing play. I'm still not a Brecht fan, and I hate his choice of structure, but I dislike him a little less now. (I'd really love to see Kattrin's thoughts on things.)

And oh dear, but I've figured out how to do Under the Gaslight as a J/D AU fic. I know velvetcherri wants be to write it, but if two other people goad me on, I'll do it.

I have so much homework tonight: essay on Mother Courage; essay comparing Antigone and Women of Trachis; eight lecture's worth of ANTH notes. This doesn't include the exams on Tuesday and Wednesday, plus the bibliography due sometime next week that I only have like a quarter of the sources for. I'm so dead.

And now the poem I picked for today is creepily fitting.

Because I could not stop for Death, Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –