Tom is out in the shop hysterically building picture frames for his upcoming photo show, Paul is pacing around the living room hysterically memorizing lines for his upcoming performance, but I am calmly sitting at the kitchen table thinking about fresh chive pesto, pileated woodpeckers, and what kinds of writers I'd hunt for if I ran a publishing company.

I made no progress on Beowulf yesterday because I spent all of my free hours being Rosencrantz to Paul's Guildenstern. However, nobody expects me to be helpful with picture frames.

It's still raining here in Harmony. According to Tom, the peepers were out last night, but I slept straight through them. I was too busy dreaming about chasing the cat through crowded city streets and forgetting to feed a baby for two or three days. Oy.