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i'm so exhausted and exhilerated all at once!! i've read far too much biography for one day...and waves of some indescribable emotion are breaking upon me, as my eyes wander over the pages chronicling keats's life...i think it's sadness...a painful, harrowing sadness...had he any way of knowing that a girl in india, would experience such a rich multitude of emotions, on reading about his life, almost two centuries later? of course he hadn't...but the thought of it feels so strange...will any of our lives induce such feelings in the minds of unknown others? who is to tell.