on Thursday, November 22, 2012
Jean-Antione Watteau was a real person - a 16th century French artist, who lived to be only thirty-six years old. This diary entry is fiction, written by yours truly, but all of the major details are historically accurate.
14 June 1721

I can no longer get out of my bed. The pains in my chest have become too strong, and I am becoming frail. This is not a sudden development; in fact, I hadn’t expected to last as long as I have. Each day I have been active less and less, many times at the disapproval of the AbbĂȘ. He wishes me to rest more, to conserve my strength. I know, however, from my lapses in health throughout my entire life, that it is no use. I know my body. I know my level of endurance. I knew, even before I became bedridden, before I consulted the Doctor, that it is unlikely I will recover from this period of ailment. Doctor Mead’s concoctions have done me little, if any good, and the damp, polluted air of London certainly did not help. I believe it is only a matter of time for me now. God has made his position clear. I see no point in praying.

on Thursday, November 8, 2012
The song “Somewhere Only We Know,” by the band Keane is filled to the brim with symbolism and metaphor. The entire song, written by Tom Chaplin, Richard Hughes, and Tim Rice-Oxely, has a resigned, nostalgic, and sometimes ever mournful tone. The lyrics, instrumentals, and vocal performance set this song apart from the common fair of Top-Forties and twenty-four hour radio. To those who do stumble upon it, it is a welcome break, and an auditory treat.