Too tired to move, too tired to leave

[sovay]

So first I re-read George Eliot's Silas Marner (1861) and then I rewatched Christine Edzard's Little Dorrit (1987) and was reminded that I never managed to locate my own copy of Charles Dickens' Little Dorrit (1857) and started re-reading A Tale of Two Cities (1859) instead; it is not that everything is very nineteenth-century right now, everything is very twenty-first-century, that's the problem, really, but nonetheless. I would like to have the time to write about anything. Or think. That would be fun, too.

[edit] Edging briefly into the twentieth century, I watched Donald Pleasance as a dark-cowled drowning spirit in Lonely Water (1973), a delightful ninety-second horror film in the guise of public information which I can only hope jumpstarted at least one career in weird fiction in among its audience's trauma. I had been hearing about it for years in a sort of legendary way. Thanks, COI.