Still Blarsy. Still raining. Saw Robert Frost's writing cabin, and longed for one of my own. Was diagnosed with a lyric sensibility. Hoped not to dance, but danced anyway. Imagined one of those MasterCard commercials: Plane fare to Vermont, bunch of faculty books, etc, etc, moshing with Michael Collier, priceless.
One of the many great lines from G.C. Waldrep's reading: "I must be a very minor poet to want so much."
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