I wanted to tell you before about the not so mysterious someone or something who is eating pears on my back porch, about Dixie getting bloated on moon stuff, and the piece of superwood that rattled my brain parts idiotically. But I was busy being sad and not so much wanting to never get a certain someone’s comments, ever again, in the places I have grown so used to finding them. But that certain someone would think that was an absolutely silly reason to not write the silly things that I write.
And so we write. Despite.