I actually read my book

I picked up the Neil Peart book I had been reading earlier this year. It had been on the fireplace since I didn't intend to leave it that long. I had to blow off the spiderwebs - and a spider.

I tried to relax with a glass of Highland Park (Neil prefers The Macallan), but the book was not conducive to it. Much of the chapter was devoted to Neil's experiences in Florida, three-quarters of which were bad. The rest of the part I read was his rather hurried journey through the southeast. In addition, I was shooting for an hour's reading, but the chapter is easily two hours long (my hour was bounded by bedtime, or I would have continued).

But still, it was a comfortable book to fall back into.

community service

A post with cemetery photos.

story in a dozen words

I never thought I was very good at writing. Not even simple stories.