Good Storm.

Chased a thunderstorm in to J. Crew U. today—it dumped at least a quarter of an inch in about fifteen minutes in Greensboro, and got fiercer as it rolled east. Dog unhappy, smashing her face against AMR during the height of it there at 709. Beautiful riding in on the tail of it, though, sun turning the whole thing a blackened purple and the new pale greens of the oaks flashing against it. These are not really sentences. Doesn't matter. End of a frustrating week out here at the two-ring circus, and now that sharpest of pleasures: skipping a meeting to drive back west. May everybody out here get assigned to ad-hoc committees. May I drink a beer on the porch.