I spilled my guts at the red light

My mother has been safely collected from the airport. Alas that donuts are so much harder to come by after midnight. The neighborhood is flowering extravagantly.

( I see the glass in your eyes. )

Discoveries of the day include the Staple Singers' "(Sittin' on the) Dock of the Bay" (1969) which came on WERS as I drove home and the Inkling-grade worldbuilding of the Rev W. and George Awdry's The Island of Sodor: Its People, History and Railways (1987) which I had not realized included an eleventh-century saga and island-specific saints on top of its own Gaelic language. I have inherited from my brother's godfather a bolo tie clasped with fossil fish and a pair of cufflinks with black and silver dragons. Time continues to feel permanently snapped. I can't believe it's the end of the month and somehow still spring.

I wear smoke like a wedding veil

I may also be inheriting a coat that makes me look about to commit crimes in pre-Code Chicago, although not any time in the next six months, because at an ambient temperature in the mid-seventies Fahrenheit I almost died of heatstroke.