It's one of those days that really does feel like September. Chilly, rather cloudy, with pumpkin muffins for breakfast. The first leaves have fallen, and there have been several days of rain, which is good for the forest-fires, and great for a pot of tea as well. I'm not sure what it is about this season that makes me want to write blogposts, but I'm not arguing the point. It's a Friday, and we've passed my birthday and are on to the fickle precursors of autumn. I have a list of things to be done today, and people to see as well. But I'll take whatever moments I have and write here, because I must.
Welcome to the online picnic-spot for my sporadic writings and endless tea drinking.
In lieu of trying to belong to any number of societies: Chesterton, Sherlock Holmes, the Inklings, and so on: I propose and establish one of my own. Don your intelligence cap at the door; dust off your logic and imagination; did you bring your inspiration and encouragement? We are shapers, my friends; lit lamps; light-bringers. Bring quotes; poetry should be uplifting and thoughtful, or witty and clever, (or both). Humor is encouraged; laughter is invited back. Pull up a chair. Anyone for tea?
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