Sweet Mother of Pearl

Well there's nothing like making your way home and realizing it's not the place of rest you expected it to be. Some people come home and sleep long hours, enjoy liesurely dinners with the family. I come home and get yelled at, escape to my room, Seems like everyone's got different things on their mind these days, and I don't know where I fit in, except for the looming recurring thought of packing up all my crap next year and moving to who knows where. I also have the recurring thought of throwing everything out, donning some kind of brown tunic and living off of the land. I could set up a little tent out around the lakes, better yet, some kind of shanty made of sticks. I would live off of the ducks--err, I mean, berries and figs--and do nothing but think about my classes and go to log chapel Mass. I'd never have to see anyone or face my life again. Sometimes I wonder if St. Francis didn't have a little pent up rage in him when he left Assisi wearing nothing but...well...nothing. If he was even the slightest bit angry, well then, we understand each other. More when I have the heart, the structure, and a motive.

No greater love has a man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends.