It's frightfully early in the morning. The airport bustles like an upturned wasps' hive. The traffic cop is tense and ill-tempered, irritated with the cows they've got driving through the departure donut these days. He goes through some scathingly funny, mocking pantomimes before he lets the stupid drivers through.
It's a strange season. Friends and loved ones all over the place are telling me about aching limbs, soaring temperatures, stolen purses, lost wallets. I went to the beach with a couple of friends and poured an offering of rum to the sea. The Library's Sort Center is a smoldering wreck, hit hard by the balmy weather (which somehow induces everyone and their mothers to return more books) and the weeklong absence of one or two of the regular veteran staff.
One of my best friends in this callow world sent me a lovely letter.
I haven't finished writing a letter for someone else, for far too long, now.
We've gotten grand reviews that have broken some people's hearts in my cast.
I sleep too much. I should do this early morning thing more often.