Chinese New Year's Break

Not a whole lot to talk about.
I took the train home just last Friday.
Somebody stole my seat, and I didn't bother telling him it was my seat. Thankfully, he got off at the second station.
I spent the rest of the ride reading Francis Schaeffer's The God Who is There.

(Idea-pooping:

Dada is really amazing, isn't it? "Art is dead; long live Dada!"

Punk rock, as well--I don't believe many people quite understood the implications of punk. Punk wasn't about the music or the fashion. Punk was to people what Dada was to art. Punk was heroin needles and razor blades and anarchy. Punk wasn't stupid--and they knew perfectly well anarchy would never work and heroin would never heal. But they didn't care; if it existed, it could be destroyed--and it, the punk subculture, the ideology, was a fine catalyst.

And hippies, perhaps--they believed in a society in which rules and commitments and expectations are naught, believed in the goodness of human nature, believed in the benevolence of the world. And it was so stupid, so naive, and thank God I wasn't born then, because I sure as hell would have been the first to join it...
And I shall try making the boy from Rise and Fall a little more hotheaded--it's quite odd: when we grow to love a character with some of the same flaws we have, we love ourselves a little more.

Done! And alas!--not even a few ideas worthy of musetime in this post.)

Ah!, I should be finishing up on my late research paper, but I don't have quite the motivation to start...