Fool, Again.

Weather report: clear and cool and robins. Hundred-hour days at work. Semi-major revision of the novel coming in a self-imposed six-week boot camp of sorts. Semester dragging to a close. Beginning to learn how to miss the seniors, even though they haven't graduated yet. Long rant today in class about Raymond Carver and Richard Ford and talent not being the (only) key to figuring out how in hell to do this, whatever this is. The impetus for said rant: this shockingly good essay.

I am deeply frustrated with my colleagues and my neighbors but tonight in here in this house in 27408 all weathers are good, are calm, are quiet. Little ice left in the glass and perhaps half a nightcap more before I'll turn in and stretch one foot across to AMR in some vestigial signal that says Yes we have had some hundred-hour days but here is my foot and I swear I will see you sometime next week or hell maybe even this weekend and incidentally I am fairly deeply glad to have you as my friend and also oh by the way what are you thinking about right now is it the robins because right now I am thinking about the robins and I was wondering if you were too.