Delivery

Deep darkness prevails tonight. Westward, clouds hang over the valley, obscuring the stars, but eastward Orion rides toward the zenith where he will vanish with the rising of the sun. The intermittent breeze has taken on a welcome and unmistakably autumnal chill. From one road, then another, I hear the car. The Sunday papers are being delivered, slapping onto driveways the weight of the world to lie unread until the somnolent citizens wake, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifts on bright air and mingles with the scent of warming pines. For now, only the leaves rustle, and the silent pages lie folded and harmless, ignored by the passing raccoons. The nocturnal beasts have important things to do. There are trash cans to be raided, and dogs to be made to bark. Death counts and opinion polls mean nothing to them. Though adapted from field and woodland to streets and back yards, the news they need of their circumscribed world is as apt to come through their noses and ears as through their eyes. To be blessed with a benevolent illiteracy is a wonderful thing.

( News from Richard Wilbur )

Eat

My blood sugar is too low. I will faint, and fall on Sluggo's keyboard, and he will invade my unconscious mind and take over my body. It's what he has wanted all along. But someone is bound to find out what has happened, and then they will drive a USB cable through my heart because that is the only way you can destroy a computer zombie, and I will be dead all because I didn't eat on time. I think I'll go eat something.