Which means?

Which means it's hot, as I'm sitting here in the late afternoon after a mind numbing day at the (air conditioned) office, and I have nothing more original to say.

Why not steal something, then, from one of the books in your library?

That's a weird thought. I wonder if anyone would notice, not because my own prose is so wonderful, but for the question: how many readers expend the consciousness necessary to notice the difference when reading a journal? Would I know the difference? I couldn't cop something like “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....” or, for that matter, “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”; but I could try something more modest: “It was a dark and stormy night (here in Oakland.” Or is that too precious?

I did think of including a line or two from the first paragraph of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, mostly because I once heard him describe it in very favorable terms (some of the best lines ever written, that sort of thing), but when I went to look for my copy I couldn't find it. One lone copy of Other Voices, Other Rooms. My, my. A whole section of the B's and C's seems to be missing: Burroughs, for example. There's a case of unpacked books around here somewhere with my B's and C's, but where? In an earlier life I'd have found this disconcerting.

Still, any evening I'm up and looking through boxes of books for a copy of a book by Truman Capote is a good evening, a sign of energy to spare. I'm looking forward to the months ahead being good ones. Meanwhile the temperature is dropping (we're near the ocean, after all) and someone said tomorrow would be cooler. Let's hope.