Morning Report

Jim and I just finished setting up the phones that came “free” with the new Time-Warner system; he’s studying the manual. I’m continuing to scan this set of 50 or so antique h@ndg*ns, watching a pair of cardinals feed each other out my window, wondering if I should take another walk with my umbrella like I did yesterday before the heavy rains come this afternoon.

In the bathroom I have the New Yorker open to a story on the novelist David Foster Wallace. I feel a twitch of envy when I read how someone became an accomplished literary novelist in his twenties. But then I remember he committed suicide last year in his forties. Maybe we plodders are happier than people who peak too young. Well… I better get back to plodding…

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