Why am I writing this?

In fact, I have nothing to say this morning. Only I have this odd compulsion to write something every day, and an equal compulsion to get it out of the way! NOW! There. Now I feel better, and can go to sleep. True, I'll probably have a nightmare about talking and no sound coming out, but I'll forget that soon enough. Nobody said this would be easy. (Or did they? I can't remember. I've got Web Fatigue again.)

Invitation to the Dunce

The latest ad I get when opening my ISP program is a survey from something called the National Federation of Independent Business. They inform me that, if I take the time to fill out their survey, I shall be rewarded with information from their members.
HA HA HA HA HA
Spam, anyone?

Pleasant Days

Everything smells fresh after the first big rain of the season. In the orchards, the apples are turning red, and the green of the oaks has reached that dusty shade which indicates that they, too, will soon show patches of red. But the air is still warm, and the younger men are still shirtless as they drive their trucks along the narrow streets, dappled with shade. Squirrels are as yet in no haste as they gather acorns, and birds peck in the lawns at their leisure. The town is poised in that quiet and vaguely pensive time at the edge of Autumn. I watch the evening settle, time and myself dreaming together.