Rain again. It doesn't feel much like May out there. I'd like to plant beans, but the soil is nowhere near warm enough for that. Still, the trees are budding, the grass is green, there's no snow, and I don't always need to wear a hat. This is Maine, after all. I can't expect a Philadelphia spring.

Classwork in the morning, and then I'll set yeast dough rising for cinnamon buns (college boy care package) and walk up to the archive to spend more time with my diary mis-copying project. I spent an itchy and unsatisfying afternoon yesterday not figuring out how I might handle these pieces in any sort of future collection. In some ways that's jumping the gun, I know; but I want to open myself to any possible narrative or dramatic options, and for now everything feels muddy and impossible. So I guess I will force myself back into the present tense and just chug along with the individual drafts. They seem to be finding themselves without trouble.