I meant to write today, really I did. But somehow no words were coming to me. And I know, I know, one is supposed to write regardless, one shouldn't wait for inspiration -- but really, I do this at work. It's hard to remember to be a good writer who scribbles when they have nothing to say when one has the uneasy feeling that there's work to be done, never mind that I know for a fact that there is Nothing To Do right now. Marking time. I'm very tired of jobs in which I mark time. What's the point?

And with that I notice that it's now 5pm, and that if I want to go to the library tonight I ought to go home now. Except I'm not feeling too much like going to the library after searching the card catalogue and discovering how little stuff they had on Europe in the 17th century. Really, it was almost funny; the subject list went:

1. Europe: History: 1517-1649
2. Europe: History: 1789-1815