Last night, I tossed and turned in bed after having a stomach ache (probably my overloaded course schedule or something I ate...) Anyway, I felt much better just being asleep. But I was awoken from a pleasant slumber by a series of squeaks. I squinted to make out the red numbers on my alarm clock: it was 2:34 a.m. Each squeak came in a set of two, with a high-pitched, louder squeak, and a less high, more quiet squeak. First, I thought it might be bats outside my window. I listened again and heard only the soft rain. Dismissing the noise as a feverish dream, I fell back to sleep for a few moments. But then again, I heard the squeak. Possibilities danced through my mind as I sat up in bed: a tortured small child, lost and crying outside my window? A dying cat? A bat fight? As I sat, awakened fully now, my senses returned, and I noticed to my own fright that the noises were coming from within my own apartment!
I crept into the hallway softly--and a pale glow eminated from under Boot's door. I thought about what the noise could be. Had Boot gone insane with insomnia? Was he disecting a bat he'd caught? Repeatedly and insanely polishing something he'd found packed in one of the boxes from our move? Scree! Scree! it sounded from behind the door. Then a pause, and then again, Scree! Scree!
Whatever it was, I vowed to find out. I took a breath and opened the door. Like a deer caught in headlights, Boot turned to me. In one hand, he held the pully cord to his horizontal window blinds. He had been trying to get them to stay up so he could put his box fan in the window. And they squeaked each time he pulled them up and screached each time they fell as he couldn't get them to stay. I sighed relief and disbelief. "And just how long were you going to keep that Scree! Scree! going on?" I asked. With a shake of my head, I took the cord, pulled the blinds up, gave him a pat on the head, and returned to the sanctuary of my own comfy bed.
Living is the only thing worth dying for; don't let your fears get in the way of your dreams.
Now, I am become death--the destroyer of worlds.
J. Robert Oppenheimer
He who fights with monsters might take care least he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.
There is nothing lower than the human race except the French
Cry “HAVOC!” And let slip the dogs of war!
France has neither winter nor summer nor morals. Apart from these drawbacks it is a fine country. France has usually been governed by prostitutes.