Yesterday I had a headache of migraine proportions. Every sound seemed a thunderclap to me. I left work early, and slept off some of the throbbing and nausea. I woke and lolled about, finishing A Midsummer Night's Dream by dim desklamp. I had picked it up, after intending for months to read it, because a statue of Puck in San Luis Obispo reminded me to. Dougie needs to read it, too; he didn't even know the merry troublemaker Puck at all. Anyway, having finished that, I began One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez. Es muy interesante.
Tonight, I intend either:
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