Outside, all the world is green.
I've begun reading Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago.
Last night we unexpectedly finished Superstore. We just abruptly reached the end of the series, which was surprisingly poignant. It really is an excellent and very funny series. And there were no saggy places. I think now we're going to rewatch Hannibal.
I am still writing. Do not think that I am not, merely because I rarely find it worth the time and energy to write about writing. I need to get a couple more issues of Sirenia Digest out, and I'm watching Vince Locke finish up the illustrations for my next short-story collection, Vile Affections, which I think will be out later this year.
No, the house did not work out. The timing was just not right, not after more than a year of self-isolation and me and Kathryn juts now pulling our topsy-turvy worlds right way up again.
7:30 p.m. (last night)