Hollowed, and a Poem

I have not been feeling at all like posting lately. January here is cold and dry. I have been working hard. I miss Colin. It's hard to see that there is much else to say. But I'll try to write one thing about each day I have missed, if I can remember anything!

Thursday: still very worn out from marathon dinner with WW. Pocket of Bolts said I should tell her that waiting until after thirty to have children is a type of population control. Andrea, in the comments below, suggests mentioning to her that in my culture it's rude to go on about that sort of thing. Should the opportunity arise again (heaven forbid) I will keep both of these suggestions in mind. I tend to be so busy trying to understand what is being said and keep up a conversation that I forget to get offended until later...

Anyway, in the morning I tried to work at the café but ended up dozing off. Spent the afternoon in the library bustling around collecting sources, so as to prevent myself from dozing off. Discovered, to my great inconvenience, that I have a five book check-out limit. Came home and made bean stew with the skin from the leftover duck. It was good, but somehow I felt all at loose ends.

Here is my rough translation of the poem I was memorizing for my Friday Chinese lesson:

Untitled, by Li Shangyin

Hard to meet again,
     so hard too to part;
The east wind has no strength
     yet scatters a hundred blooms.
Spring silkworms only in death
     exhaust the thread they spin.
Only when the candle burns out
     do its tears ever dry.
The morning mirror shows you glum,
     how your temples are greying,
And I at night murmuring verses--
     how cold the moon's light.
From here to the Immortal Isle
     the way is not so far;
I will send an eager green bird
     ahead of us to look it out.