I work tonight. I can not find time to write, or read the books piled onto the coffee table, an abrupt obtrusion placed in front of a short bookcase against my room's wall. Maybe, I will find several minute minutes to study French for a test tomorrow. And maybe Valentine's day will be a relief, a joy: french exchange student arriving, work at night (un restraunt dans turmoil), one heart for me, and a shared meal. Lovely, you say, and this is the stupendous reality we we're all hoping towards?