a composite of inviting but prohibited narratives

C. D. Friedrich, Wanderer above a Sea of Mist (1818)

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There are days (like today) when I wish I didn't have to work.

On these days I think of how, if i didn't have to work, I could have taken a minor and graduated in four years.

Some amount of whimsy later, I pounce upon the ideal of not being able to blame work when I don't do well book-wise.

Then, I also wonder how it would be like to not think about the loans that have to be serviced before that elusive but oh-so-desirable masters can be taken.

Now, I conclude I must have too much time if I have time for such nothingness.

But because these thoughts have now been written and I have decided to champion Calvino and Nabokov, these musings, now written, were in fact, nothing.