The first fireflies of the year made an appearance tonight, unoffended by my talking to myself as campfire flames lept and spat from damp wood.

Time is marching on, and while spelling “why me, you bastard of a god” in macaroni night after night on my kitchen counter was supposed to quell said marching, it continues undeterred.

Pre-COVID, I believed making good art ameliorates the general malaise of the unknown, and whatever crippling disappointment I experience will be the result of romantic underachievement rather than not sharing what I create.

Currently? I believe making good art ameliorates the general malaise of the unknown, and whatever crippling disappointment I experience will be the result of romantic underachievement rather than not sharing what I create.

I’m still the same unflappable tweedy jackass, and I don’t imagine that will change.