Turns
All had the dream again last night of the ruined iron-latice, and the billowing sheet of white, racing itself, particle by particle, 60 MPH up broadway.
The church goers from the north intoned, “Our Hams are so greasy. They taste less of the salt and sweet tenderness, more of the lard. Our Hams so are greasy.” The Choir leader sang back, “Our Hams are not greasy.” Church people shook their heads no.
The elephants held a cacaus in eastern Harlem, deciding resources were growing thin, and though a memorial stampead was appropriate and deserving, resources were thin, and it would be held off till the end of the month, where inevitably a summary memorial would be held.
The race of our leaders distilled back to a quiet question, Can a Liberal Be a Unifier? It felt like we were asking the right questions again. Back to basics. That, least of all, meant things were on the up.
Coffee not half bad today.
