My ceiling is swarming with beads of yellow seepage.
Not the whole ceiling, just part of it. The wheels of maintenance are in motion, but a favorable outcome remains in doubt. I envision guys with wrenches spending an afternoon in my room, breaking things, creating disorder in the service of order.
I checked books out from the library for the first time in a year, I think. The books were written by Mohammad, Spahr, and Tate (comma James). Please don't recall them, fellow NYPLers. I need tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeee to read them.