Spitball Army

This has turned out to be a pretty long letter, hasn’t it? Where did I find all those words? I’m sure I don’t know. I haven’t written the same thing over and over, have I?

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I just entered ANAGRAM into Google, and the search engine asked me, “Did you mean NAG A RAM?”

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Card is titled: “Easton’s Bathing Beach, Newport, Rhode Island. Photo: J.L. Goodman. E-5918.”

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Approxmiate playing time: 76 minutes.

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You don’t know how much it means to me to know beyond a doubt that you are waiting waiting for me, trusting me and loving me. I feel sorry for those who have no one waiting for them – those that have no one to love.

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Christopher Hitchens, who seems to have made a career out of frustrating, infuriating and intriguing his readers on matters of politics, history, and social culture, talks here with CNN’s Anderson Cooper about his recent encounter with, and treatment for, cancer.

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All accounts suggest that Elton John and Bernie Taupin wrote “Teenage Idol” as a tribute to glam rocker Marc Bolan of the band T.Rex.

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The on-screen popup says “Your Mouse’s batteries are critical.” I open the Mouse, hold the batteries in my palm. They say nothing.

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The more I think and dream, the more I want you. It seems like I spend most of my time dreaming.

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I push the mower at dusk. Fireflies rise from the yard, oncoming headlights. I swerve, cross back, cut grass that’s already shorn.

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