"he dreamed that he was getting out of bed, opening the door and going into an identical room with the same bed with a wrought- iron head, the same wicker chair, and the same small picture of the virgin of help on the back wall. from that room he would go into another that was just the same, the door of which would open into another that was just the same, the door of which would open into another one just the same, and then into another exactly alike, and so on into infinity. he liked to go from room to room, as in a gallery of parallel mirrors, until Prudencio Aguilar would touch him on the shoulder. then he would go back from room to room, walking in reverse, going back over his trail, and he would find Prudencio Aguilar in the room of reality. but one night, two weeks after they took him to his bed, Prudencio Aguilar touched his shoulder in an intermediate room and he stayed there forever, thinking it was the real room."

if you think i wrote this you're almost right.

its from 100 years of solitude. my comparative lit book. wow wow wow.

everyday, just being in that class makes me excited.

we talk about the role of fiction. about perceptions of reality, and how that relates to fiction. how a spiral is two antagonistic thoughts joined together. how a biography or realist writing isnt always all 'real' or 'true' because one person's reality is only their reality. noone can experience the same moment in the exact same way.

i might explode because this is so cool.

except we have a small, 5 page paper due monday.

but eh.

batman (0 so far)