"All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered."
There is a particular kind of August laziness that likes to dress itself up as a fashionable pose: you can’t undertake significant projects in August, you’re not supposed to, apparently, you aren’t even supposed to read anything that’s too complicated (though I wonder, if you
Succede sempre, nelle prime ore di un workshop di modellazione informativa: uno studente che conosce bene Revit — famiglie, fasi, worksharing, tutto l’armamentario — si trova davanti al muro di unn edificio storico, storto in sezione, trapezoidale in pianta, e per un attimo non sa
I have a profound loathing for Virginia Woolf’s writings. Not the woman, I think she was awesome. Her writing. It’s personal, and possibly shallow, and has mostly to do with my mother: she loved Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, and forced me to read it
There is a particular kind of August laziness that likes to dress itself up as a fashionable pose: you can’t undertake significant projects in August, you’re not supposed to, apparently, you aren’t even supposed to read anything that’s too complicated (though I wonder, if you
Succede sempre, nelle prime ore di un workshop di modellazione informativa: uno studente che conosce bene Revit — famiglie, fasi, worksharing, tutto l’armamentario — si trova davanti al muro di unn edificio storico, storto in sezione, trapezoidale in pianta, e per un attimo non sa
I have a profound loathing for Virginia Woolf’s writings. Not the woman, I think she was awesome. Her writing. It’s personal, and possibly shallow, and has mostly to do with my mother: she loved Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, and forced me to read it
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