I got started writing something on paper again last night. I was making an answer to a question I was asked, and, as is so often the case, it got out of hand. I've got almost eight pages of it so far, and it's probably only half done. Oh, Max Perkins is spinning in his grave!
It will be hot again today, so I'll have limited access. Even now, with the first birds already chirping, the night remains uncomfortably warm. It's another one of those summers, I fear.
Post now, before Sluggo rebels.