"Man is his own star; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all light, all influence, all fate;
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."

Epilogue to Beaumont and Fletcher's Honest Man's Fortune

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Just felt like putting this up. It opens Emerson's Self-Reliance. I love American Lit, but boy do I hate the exams. It feels like rape. Bad rape.

And I've been MIA lately, partly because of the exams and partly because of something else I'm not at liberty to disclose now. Will explain when everything's finalised.