Lame

I am not yet up to full speed following the weekend and its dear friend, Monday. Even so, I will give you my words, here, now. The words are yet to be chosen. The meanings and purposes may never be known. Or known of, in some cases.

Summer swelter arrived today. Humid and breezeless. My least favorite time of the year is summer. But enough about me and summer. Why do we squabble so?

El Farmo Cunado has yet to show any real promise. There is a lot of grass starting to work it's way into the picture that needs removal. But not today.

Went to a bookmobile on Sunday. A bunch of used books discarded from libraries are packed willy nilly into a small trailer and driven into town. Paperbacks are fifty cents, hardcovers are a dollar. I went to fiction to see what I could see. You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but I'm pretty sure you can judge a book by its title. I can't say for sure that I will like a book based on its title. But there are plenty of titles I see that I know will have a story inside I must avoid. I walked away with nothing from the bookmobile.

My writing muscle has cramped and I'm pulling up lame. Hang in there Bloglandonians, I'll have something fabulous to share soon enough. Who is me. What is this. Where is here. When is later.

Later.