It is phenomenoa like that of which I stand in constant dread: boats coming down rocks, people being teleported, statues dripping blood, old regrets and dreams in the form of Luna moths fluttering against the windows at midnight.
James Thurber
Clearly, I am online.
After three weeks , the computer and the phone lines and the rest of the universe has decided to be kind to me.
I don't know what the change is.
Perhaps the storm last night.
The storm last night packed winds strong enough to tip over a wooly mammoth.
The winds blew right through the walls, it seemed, right through the mortar in the bricks.
And rattled the roofing tin.
And also seems to have had an effect on the computer. Because, clearly, I am online.
It is phenomenoa like that of which I stand in constant dread: the remnants of the hurricanes in September knocked me off-line - I couldn't get back on for a month. Then I could, for no rhyme or reason. I just could.
All through Jan. and Feb. I've been able to get online at will, then, suddenly, nothing.
Last nights storm seems to have shaken things up enough: here I am.
I know you've missed me, dear reader. Unfortunately, I am in such a state of shock from actually being able to post that I can post on nothing but the ability to post, which is this post.
Ah, these post-modern times.
