22 January 2008. Xolodno, xolodno, ochen' xolodno, gospodá. Fellow citizens, it be chilly. Twinkly gray in the sky, threatening sun along the southern horizon, touch of rain. In the living room this morning, wicker basket on an old trunk, a cooing sound--at first a dove, but no, Natasha, her fluffy curl, entwined and esconced in some furry dreamland...
Through the window: two red tail lights on a midnight blue Chevy truck--everything looking good. Then, Richard's voice, in a downward slide: "Well, there goes our retirement...," proclaimed with cheery resignation (the stock market). Nonetheless, he chugs out the door...
Dubliners, Ivy Day in Committee Room. "Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and his face slowly reemerged into light."
The ode to Parnell...
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