Two Hundred Seventy-Four

The forecast for tomorrow, finally, corresponds to my definition of ideal weather: a high of seventy-five and a low in the upper forties, with clear skies. Saturday, the day I will read a short piece on stage at our local Showcase of the Arts, promises an almost identical reprise of that perfection. That’s the sort of weather, though, that makes being indoors a bit like being sentenced to time in jail.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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