What there is to say

I finished a paper I've been working on since mid-March around 7 yesterday evening, and titled it the same as above. Right now I'm not sure what to write about it here; I just know I have to, eventually.

After being awake for 21 hours--and experiencing breakfast at Steak n Shake (M, what were you thinking?)--I took a short nap, woke up around noon yesterday, took a stumbling, shambling walk through the verdant fecundity of residential Urbana to clear my head, polished said paper, and wrote another for the same course. Around 7:30 pm I triumphantly showered and fell into bed. Woke up at precisely 1 am and made pancakes.

It's raining here. The pavement beyond my front porch swing glistens in the hovering streetlight, laquered with soft May drops. I stand at the bay window, wrapping my fuzzy robe around myself, and watch the tiny impacts fade, second by second. Over the soothing whirr of the electric fan my brain layers lyrics from Les Nubians' "Amour á mort": "On cherche l'amour sans trève/ C'est qu'sans amour, on crève..."

Do we kill always for love of an idea? Is there something endemically, fundamentally wrong with the Western mode when service to an idea is our highest goal, yet individuals cannot judge which ideas are worth the sacrifice?

By the time I finish this post, international news outlets may have today's new articles up. Time for another round of reading. I'm rapidly descending into junkiehood during my last week in the undergraduate bubble. And for those of you wondering, check out the International Committee of the Red Cross' link to the text of the Geneva Conventions.