Sunday, May 11

It's a beautiful day out. Sitting here wearing the clothes I slept in, drinking the last decent beer in the house, I'm confronted with a staggering range of possible action. It all resolves to looking through the window at the new leaves and the blue sky wondering why I don't have any pot left. As Kris Kristofferson could probably tell you, every quiet Sunday morning is a certain kind of life in miniature.