that's my mama

who the hell do i think i am when there's leo tolstoy? every sentence is a piece of perfection you could write volumes about and they just keep comin. then there's the ones that stop you in you tracks:

as often happens in early youth, especially to one who leeds a lonely life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man and made up his mind that they would be friends.

i read it and cried. clutching the page, i drifted into sleep.