Sheepskin Tearaway.

tomorrow could be one of the longer days of my life.

Cottonmouth.

“Give me Yesterday’s Bread, this Day’s Flesh, and last Year’s Cider.” Benjamin Franklin

Sundays are for reading.

For the most part, I’ve managed to tame my insomnia. But every now and then, it likes to make a cameo at an inopportune time.

Fell asleep on the Amtrak and dreamt about aquaducts and assasinations. I’m still disoriented about it.

The chill outside has given me a new band name idea: “Frozen Hoof.”

So, it’s okay to not wash your hands after making peepee with winter gloves on … right?

Soon as I got off the train in Richmond, it started sleeting. It is 52 degrees. Not an ominous sign, though — it’s a good one. I can tell.