My inbox has 0 new emails.
This is the fifth time I checked my email in the last seven hours. I wake up at strange hours of morning wishing something good would turn up. Nothing much, except one from a professor in Berkeley to whom I wrote about his cyborg beetle. Which is but implanting neural sensors and microchips in a living insect to make it do controlled movement. It seemed fun, and working on something like that for a PhD seemed amazing. Taking into consideration, I am already trying to make a butterfly micro-robot. But well, the group isn't taking new grads as such.
St. Charles weather says its -12 Celsius today. Somewhere in Park Ridge your car is almost covered with snow, while you lying in your bed looking at your blue colored walls. You know, I won't ring your doorbell anymore, nor I would call you. I am seven thousand miles away, in a strange city, a city where I came for a reason which I am so unsure now. But then, there is little in life that I regret.
No comments:
Post a Comment