i can't sleep. not a wit. i feel like an archeologist who's dug up some famous, sought-after treasure and is about to become rich beyond his wildest dreams. i feel like the first (as far as i know, of course) to actually have an inkling of who this great man was, and through his works still is.
i'm more in awe of the fact that he had the stones to publish the sonnets. i wonder if they were appreciated properly at the time?
hopefully my professor will be able to meet with me today. this sensation is far too overwhelming to keep it locked up.
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