one hundred sixty eight

Summer is no good for writing. Spring and especially Fall, those are the times to write. Summer and Winter here are dreadful and nothing will ever be accomplished within their lands. Unfortunately, that’s about nine months of the year that leaves me inactive, but i tend to make up for the loss in the Falls and Springs.

That is to say, i can no longer write. These uninspiring times. These wasteful days.

Chicago for the weekend.

Miss me.

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