.07 Shelled

Franc Grom, hailing from dream country Slovenia, designs these little fertile beauties and in turn makes me anxious for Easter (although never in the religious fashion— I do not partake.)  Tonight I dream of hanging them around my room in galaxy-esque couture and floating away.  With any luck, the almost-quarter-century birthday will bring about a collection of kuri-kuri mini drills.  Otherwise, I’ll contemplate marrying a woodworker instead.

On another note, this weekend Mother Nature and I held hands (on her part, I’m sure, reluctantly) while clamming along the shores of the uninhabited.  White wine, butter and a few handpicked chives dressed the little lovelies up and made them absolutely divine.  Oh yes, and if you are reading, mother, don’t worry.  I didn’t forget my Jameson like originally thought.

I’m procrastinating on today’s poem postcard; Monday has brought with her sunshine and therefore paralysis or, equally, the never-ending desire to finish my book under the budding cherry blossoms.  Between laying typeset and reading by the light of hurricane lamps, my eyes have become heavy and spastic.  But I’ll exchange my eyesight for conversations with Sam Green, which are debilitating, and the occasional whiskey with him makes coming back to reality even worse.

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