George: Nothing from you in the past few days. What’s going on? Hesitant to log weather and reddening blackberries? I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Who could possibly have anticipated so many souls hanging onto your most pedantic words seventy years later? And, yes, George (can I call you Eric?), I’m one of them. I know that, being dead, you’re not exactly in a position to care about what your readers might think now. But if some residue remains aside from the tomes that settle in the dust, don’t let the haters bring you down. At least you have the comfort of writing words without getting instant feedback from readers. None of us have that now, George. Not anymore. I suppose that’s why the book exists. There, we can write about damn near everything and in the early stages of applying the nib to paper (or, more pragmatically, fingers to keyboard), we can machete through an unfettered wilderness of words before we start hunting endangered species. Got caught in the rain myself this afternoon. Heavy downpour, soaked shirt, no grass snake. Wildlife encounter yesterday. Loud squeak from rail, followed by rat just more than a foot long, dragging a bit of Styrofoam into a hole, then screechy onset of approaching car. The rats do seem to know when the subways come, making their cameos at the eleventh hour. This evening, saw spitting image of old high school friend in the streets. Gait, swagger, height, loping arms, and frame a total match. Followed man a block to see if he was truly a Doppelganger, but when he turned, there was no physiognomic resemblance. Phone rings frequently now that cell’s back in action, but am trying to make this more of a luxury. Frequently unplugging from Internet to get work done, to map out terrain while there’s still some time. Rest easy, George. Am eagerly awaiting your next volley and will respond in kind, even though some are losing patience with this format. Well, I like it. So there.