You may be thinking, surely they're done painting by now; but you'd be wrong. But if you're thinking, wow, I bet they're completely exhausted, then you win nothing except the satisfaction of being absolutely right. I know the punctuation is weird and incorrect, but I'm too beat to deal with it right now. And still time rolls on...

Will we finish in time? Yes, even if it kills us and George must live in the apartment alone. (He's already going to have to get a job to pay for the extra $20 a month he's costing us.)

It won't be easy. Things may never be the same. But we will move.

And I'm sure we'll be glad when we're done. I mean, glad that we invested all this time and stupefying effort. Because the walls do look better and the place is beginning to feel human and livable, since we started using wall paint instead of primer. The sins of the past are mostly being covered over, if not erased.

That's all except for:

Hank Steuver grapples with the war protests without coming to terms with them (I can relate);

I'd read Michael Dirda's magazine; and

Susan Marie has had some lovely entries lately so go read them. (Philosophy is so weird, particularly modern philosophy, which seems to be hell-bent on saying that the classics of philosophy weren't even. So much of it seems to feed inward with no flow back out. Maybe an entry soon on this or maybe not. Maybe I will reserve this topic for arguments with philosophy professors at Joe and Melendra Sutliff Sanders' annual Batman's birthday parties.)

Are you reading Jincy Willett yet? Or have you? I haven't hit a wringer yet and I'm finished with over half the stories. Fabulous. Wonderful. And yet, she's a mystery. All the web hits for her I've found are for the reissue of the book except one lone quote associated with a writing exercise at some college: "You know more than you think you do." Perhaps. But I don't know how someone who writes so well can be such a ghost. It makes the whole thing even better somehow, though, doesn't it?