The scene of the crime: one weekend in 03--an emptied pool, belt buckles, upstate. Returning to the scene: en route, them; thinking about criminality--theirs, mine, everyone's.
Wednesday: *I am twenty-five years old. An age that can be reasonably expected to include pleasures other than solving riddles...* Thursday: *Hello, mind clothed in a body* (*****René Crevel)
Symptom: the unexpected from the better three-vowel state, and Belgium. Cure: catch the pop fly, stand up, and sing: HOT DOG. [to ensure the best effect, take note of this post's optical illusion. Note that it is not an illusion]
Ailment: independence day mattress sales; sunken railroad tracks; the building that blocks the right half of the fireworks; being skeptical of fireworks. Nostrum: leave the cooked heart of an artichoke in your refrigerator for exactly 6 days; remove the spiky tendrils; heat. Eat, followed by one large bowl of muesli.