Some socks

I've been petulant and moody, unable to write anything. I did buy colorful socks: they're nicer than these humid days.

My Idleness

I have not made myself write in a while, coasting on the thoughts of history's shadows. I'm enamored by fictional characters. The silently passionate Tatiana, sitting by the window, pale, with flaming dark eyes. Andrei Bolkonsky underneath Austerlitz skies and his steel, cynical stature. After these summer days, these creatures haunt my impressionable mind, more solid and lasting than my ephemeral whims.

I'm also considering collecting beautiful faces, to brand with names and loves and stories. My collection starts with him. A Eugene Onegin with red hair, perhaps?

The Sartorialist