O Rose, thou art sick!

I'm really struggling right now. The nature of my studies provides daily offerings of inspiration - thoughts and words are stacked up to the ceiling of my mind - but the nature of my studies provides with no time in which to drain this fluid. Last week, as I sat an listened to the Czech recital of song and piano in Newnham's Old Labs, and gazed upon the warm black and white photographs of beautiful women (whose grey hairs and worn faces spoke of a beauty of mind and strength), words ebbed and flowed as Virginia Woolf's waves. But instead I must sit and rigidly adhere to the constraints of time and subject of my course. Instead, this week I must perform the fourth draft of an essay on Milton (the sight of which now makes me feel sick), and on Johnson and Empson and Freud. I dream of the time (that is always summer) that I will lay and read and write and read as I please.