A Fact Is Not A Truth Until

I Never Cared What Kind Of Grade I Got.

Generally The First Week In September Brings The Hottest Weather Of The Year, And This Was No Exception. Overhead The Fans Turned Slow, Their Paddle Blades Stirring The Air Up Close To The Ceiling But Nowheres Else.

I Used To Write Sonnets And Various Things, And Moved From There Into Writing Prose, Which, Incidentally, Is A Lot More Interesting Than Poetry, Including The Rhythms Of Prose.

A Combination Of All That Was Best In The Gladdest Days Of The Departing Year.

I Abhor The Idea Of A Perfect World. It Would Bore Me To Tears.