Anyone on the east coast of the US probably knows how beautiful, if not entirely comfortable, today is. I took advantage of this to reverse a trend of not drinking too much lately and drank too much.
The sky kicking the last bits of winter off over the bright green grass is not to be missed, and cannot be soberly apprehended, unless one is one of those enlightened dicks who’ve strayed from the temple or cloister, and have some point to make.
The fucking camera shut down for the day, but without some panoramic feature, and watercolor manipulation, it wouldn’t have been able to catch it.
A few days ago, my wife quoted this Bacharach and David thing, and I had to look it up and be crushed by its sad little truths, even though it’s just a fucking pop song. I’m going to hand it off to you, because it’s simple and sweet, and mind bendingly depressing. Christ, the sixties must have been strange for people looking for a partner to help them make some sense of their nicotinic lives.
At least they had some decent pop.

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