Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself.

I have so many things to do - Three major projects - And less than a month to accomplish them all. I feel like, in my free time from working, since I logically can't do that twenty-four hours a day without completely burning out, instead of spending that time eating or thinking of how badly I want a bookshelf or cleaning the daily dust off my guitar, I should pick up something that I enjoy, or once enjoyed, but that has a slight hint of torture to it.

Like trying to sketch the woods out back covered in snow.

Or like reading great Russian literature.