Cloaked in feathers to fall through the earth

On concluding this afternoon's unavoidable phone calls, we fled into the last of the daylight.

( The paths are all black with trees. )

We had actually managed to wander as far as Washington Street, so as far as we can reconstruct, we returned via Franklin Avenue, got slightly distracted by the architecture of St. Benedict Parish, and finally cut back to Broadway where we made another couple of squares around streets named after assorted states of the U.S. until Fasika opened for dinner and we could take home a kitfo- and lentil-heavy combo for two, which we ate while watching Ernst Lubitsch's Cluny Brown (1946). It would have been an even nicer night if we had not encountered two separate instances of men screaming racist abuse on the street, in both cases not at anyone who was actually there, but still not cool.

Wes has been eulogized by Jon Stewart. I can read his obituary. I do not expect it to stop feeling wrong.