down time

3:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning of mid-Spring seems like a fine time to welcome change. As the school-weeks stop smouldering--and the point at which the last smoke rises and scatters plays on the line between imagination and reality--leaving on me a deeper and more distinct mark than probably even I can perceive, I ought to be able to look desirously forward. To regular sleep and eating well, old friends and time to myself, to reading and not worrying about money, the mountains and the river, playing music again, familiar and new places, and purpose and driving.

Really. Hell, why not?

boy is Anchor Porter ever good.

and because I'm not quite out of my mind yet, I'll listen to a little more of The Sounds of the Sounds of Science, and then read a bit more Gogol ("The Nose"). I've in the past suspected that too much was really only just enough. Let's roll.