It’s a flammable world, and we are the tinder.
Spar masts and flax rigging, your English sails wouldn’t bear the heat, whiplashed and snapping like a thunderclap. Ashley’s playing electric guitar and I’m drinking already. It surprises me when people say I’m well-read. It’s not true, but I like it. An autodidact is always attractive.
Rebecca’s in Pennsylvania boiling down maple sap. Kate’s in Pittsburgh, counting Betsy Ross’s stars and down the days before birth pangs. Brendan’s invoking the soul of John Calvin, to my infinite delight, and calling down lightning on Rebecca for her bellydancing. He’s rereading the Inferno, which is absolutely a delicious picture. And here I am in Chapel Hill, slightly tipsy, wondering when I’ll see my new friends Heather Andy Chris again.