the rest of the day with a bad case
of extremely unproductive nervous energy -
starting many little tasks and finishing none
of them.







11-5 Something utterly horrible is happening to somebody
somewhere as I sit here with pen in hand. Outside my
study window, which faces the backyard, I can see the
light drizzle moistening the world. Beyond my small
yard, seperated from it only by the barest of
ancient wooden picket fences, the forest waits silent
and gleaming and greener than green.

I wonder at my choice of words just now. I
wrote that the forest "waits". Waits for what? For
whom?

"For thee, young man!" my inner clown insists.