This morning, my mind is like, um, it’s like, oh what’s the word? Something fancy and cool. And super smart. C’mon. Think. Quicksilver? A sieve? An abandoned power station?
RIP Tom Phillips.
Well. Isn’t that just some of the best news I can’t tell anyone yet.
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Crescent moon through bare branches out my kitchen window this morning, unphotographable.
90: Pitch Black (lined)
91: Snowy Evening (15,902)
Laszlo will have to wait. Tomorrow will be beyond imagining.
Cheer Up, You Melancholy Dane!
We just bought our tickets for the Guthrie’s production of Hamlet in April. We’ll be preparing by rereading some of our favorite monologues and — of course — rewatching the first season of Slings & Arrows.
The books I brought with me, in case you were curious. (The Midgley is a reread.)
My wife and I will be out running errands all morning, so — of course — I’ll have three books with me, just in case.
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Covid test? Negative. Feel like crap? Positive.
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The total lunar eclipse is in turn eclipsed by the solid cloud cover.
Today, I had to abandon a book on a topic I’ve been obsessed with for many years. The book is incredibly valuable: exhaustively researched, written by someone who’s a leading expert on the subject.
And yet…
The writing is atrociously, embarrassingly bad. I just couldn’t go on.
Now playing: Esmerine, If Only A Sweet Surrender Be True
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