But Troy was far away

I drink pomegranate tea and look out the window at the moon in a white crater of cloud: ghost-lit, blackened. The sky looks solid as soot, ink run on wet paper. All the light, the tree's branches entangle and if there were a month when I would believe that the moon could strand itself in a locust tree and be discovered at dawn still hung up among the shedding leaves, the wind and indrawn chill, this is it.

It's been a curious day for coherence. I had my eyes dilated for an ophthalmologist's appointment this afternoon and I still can't quite see properly. (The phenomenon was fascinating to observe in the doctor's office—when I couldn't focus enough to read, when my depth perception disappeared—and rapidly lost its charm as soon as I walked outside.) I need stronger glasses, it seems. The wages of academia; or genetics. At least when I look in a mirror now, I see an owl and not the stoner of a lifetime.

fleurdelis28 introduced me last week to the Museum of Hoaxes, and despite stiff competition from Appleton's Cyclopedia, the Fortsas Bibliohoax, and the Theft of the Sacred Cod, I think I have been made happiest to learn of the existence of Fritz Kreisler. Until proven otherwise, I will continue to believe that he was invented in collaboration by E.T.A. Hoffmann and P.D.Q. Bach.

My birthday is on Monday. So tomorrow my brother and his girlfriend are taking me to King Richard's Faire. If anyone yells, "Huzzah! Twenty pounds for the King!" I will be highly, highly amused.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.