…yes I’m looking at opera vids to try and spool down a bit.

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I know I’ve said it before but my dear sweet god that woman has lungs of leather and vocal strings of solid fucking adamantium.

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In other news, my eardrums are gone, and I blame the damn dog.

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Boxnoggin is absolutely determined to make the sound of his voice yelling GET OFF MY LAWN audible through not only our house, but (by sheer volume) throughout the entire neighborhood.

From the article: “The lockdown worked like a chemical experiment that suddenly illuminated hidden things.”

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“…thinks of citizens as a hostile force that needs to be ambushed, taken by surprise, but never trusted.” ft.com/content/10d8f5e8-74eb-1

I always wanted to set a Jill Kismet shoot-out to NO SLEEP TIL BROOKLYN.

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“So be true to it where you need to be, change it if you think it needs to change, and write the story you need to write.” thoth-amon.blogspot.com/2020/0

Time to get up and dance. I’m thinking Prince’s KISS is this afternoon’s jam.

There were only a few bees today. One hit me in the face and flew off, the others simply circled a bit, sampled my hair, and left.

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“Jane's own tragedy has, meanwhile, taken on aspects of the modern misery memoir: all broken taboos, high sales and false memories.” 1843magazine.com/content/leand

And I was not accosted ONCE during walkies or running, unless you count Toasted Marshmallow Cat. Who was beautiful but really needs some self-preservation instincts.

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Had to run solo this morning; Boxnoggin was in a crap-in-the-street mood. He just doesn’t make good choices, some days, so he stays home.

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The cat sat in a nearby yard and semaphore-blinked at me while Boxnoggin sang the song of his people and strained at his harness.

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Also, a big toasted marshmallow of a cat hungry to make acquaintance despite the fact that 50% of the dogs I was strapped to longed to eat it whole.

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This morning’s walk: Trees shrugging into their summer robes, looking for rips and holes to darn shut.

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Ragged Feathers

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