In bed, in song.

Dear diary.

I don't have much to say. Energy is being reserved for the day that is to come and so I will not overwork my brain here. Last night I went through the wringer, the empty glasses from Rabbi's dangerously delicious caesars with the pickled beans piling higher and higher around me at my station in the kitchen. Homegirl slings I mighty fine caesar. I could barely get out of bed to get to work this morning. Someone said I looked wan. It is never pleasant to hear one looks wan. Anyway, my slowed body finally made it home, and I slid into bed with a few boys from a band called Fleet Foxes. In spirit. Listen to this, the whole way through.

To William if you are reading this: I would like to be in your quartet. I sing Alto I and will need a lot of help with my notes. But, when I get it, I get it.

Listen, and slide into a nearby bed with Fleet Foxes. I want the man with the mouth. Watch his mouth in the room with the high ceilings when he hits the high notes. Incredible. Rabbi, add that to my list: he has to sing like a songbird.

I am dying a slow death today. Hail Caesar Augustus, hail Mary.
Hailstorm, Madge.

Listen, click, and really listen. These men can sing.