Four and a half hours between worlds. Stepping out of that and shrugging into this. Back again.
“The wisdom of winter is madness in May.” An Irishman I recognized but couldn’t name sang that today. Not to me; on the radio. I’m wondering whether I’m in winter or in May and which it would be if I had the choice. Maybe I’m the winter wisdom living mad in May. Hey, maybe that’s it. That’s what’s wrong.
This is what happens when I have to write a hundred words and don’t have that many decent enough to take out in public.
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