Spent most of the time in useless thoughts about my future ... only to realise that "worrying about it is as effective as trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing bubble gum."
Accompanied my parents ( rather uncomfortably ) to go to one of our relative's place ( branched from the family tree 3 generations ago ) who stay pretty away in the country-side leading very normal lives. The place was so silent and still ... the only moving thing was the pendulum of the old grandfather clock prominently hanging on the otherwise dull looking wall. Everything was silent ... the tick-tock of the clock was thankfully breaking the monotony. I slept there for a good 3 hours.
Once I was back, I settled down with a book. Rushdie was luring me again.
"One may read and like or admire or respect a book and yet remain entirely unchanged by its contents, but love gets under one's guard and shakes things up, for such is its sneaky nature.
When a reader falls in love with a book it leaves its essence inside him, like radioactive fallout in an arable field, and after that there are certain crops that will no longer grow in him, while other, stranger, more fantastic growths may occasionally be produced. We love relatively few books in our lives and those books become parts of the way we see our lives, we read our lives through them, and their descriptions of the inner and outer worlds become mixed up with ours, they become ours. "