A Nation's Drum

It's sun-drenched today — I'm sure you've noticed. Believe it or not, I spent the best part of the early four on a corrugated roof, cork hat in tow. The stars were out, so the sky was empty. I don't think they're early-risers. Still, a naked sky is better than a blue one, and I remained rooted. Interestingly, there was a starving kid on the lawn. We had a long discussion about the fate of the semi-colon before he collapsed. My doctor's eyes pronounced his death.

When I returned in of doors, I dictaphoned some arguments about the over-reliance on dashes and the stop-start clunkiness of late, some of which may have been paraphrased from my recently deceased, and then made a cereal breakfast by cutting a rectangular eye-hole in the box. The rest of the morning was soundtracked by a certain singer-songwriter's Southern Hemispheric insights on what makes this place great. Him.

And now here I sit, feeling rather like sticking my head in some dirt. We've all had those days. I also feel like prancing about the garden. We've those too.

Now I'm going to put the first syllable in Tuesday and feast.