Knock Knock.

Hot. Dry. Can't quite recollect the last time it rained. School's back in. August is over. Earl seems to want part and parcel of the Carolinas. Fiona back behind that. Nineties. Nineties to open September. My first day back at the puppet show: backed over the new office-hour lawn chairs with the truck, printed and discussed the wrong syllabus. Warned the children about seriousness of purpose. Can't remember if my own purpose has ever been less serious, can't remember when anything was ever more serious than it is now. Here is how it goes on the Piedmont: we watch for coastal storms, we wait for cooler nights. Bring me some season that isn't this, please. Waiter. There's a fly in my soup. The backstroke. Everyone will want one. Timing. Location. That's comedy.