The morning started with two cups of decaf (sic) coffee and some weblog (er, Willard) reading. The raillery between the Tutor and AKMA is as ripe as ever (no, riper!), but for me it was a day to absorb and ponder beautiful young Philo-Sophia, not rally my own plaudits and critiques. The voices of loud painters drew me outward: I poured a rather large cup of coffee (caffeinated, thank you—with two lumps), and took a stroll through the neighborhood. Then a comment on dreams with Jimfl (Mr. E. Burns). The early aft went into calling studio managers and paying to rent their studios.

Put in Vitalogy in the later afternoon as I sat down to scan and crop some photos for my theatre company. After that disc finished the changer slipped to the next CD which turned out to be the gorgeous—the inimitable—24 Preludes and Fugues of Dmitri Shostakovich, played by (master of the planned mistake) Keith Jarrett. The transition from "foxymophandlemama" to the first prelude was so smooth I didn't notice until the prelude was over and the fugue was upon me. At around that time I took up pencil and ruler and started making sketches for stage sets, a thoroughly enjoyable activity which occupied me as the light got dark and the breeze of Seattle (where the lake never frosts, where the sun never scorches skin) buoyed me across an unknown number of hours. Then I arranged my lonely sustenance, and then came back to the blogue.

The only thing that could sweeten an afternoon like this is a You with which to share it. But then one doesn't wish for Yous in general. . . Instead I shall wish for: you, my Unkown.