<= 2002.11.09

2002.11.11 =>

no man shall see my face and live

I have discovered a new Arizona writing fuel: orange juice and tapwater with a splash of lime. It's sort of like Gatorade, but more ghetto. It keeps you at your desk, somehow; like a hummingbird, you subsist on fructose.

Dec. 23, 1855. Think of the life of a kitten, ours for instance: last night her eyes set in a fit, doubtful if she will ever come out of it, and she is set away in a basket and submitted to the recuperative powers of nature; this morning running up the clothes-pole and erecting her back in frisky sport to every passer.

—Thoreau, Journals

 

<= 2002.11.09

2002.11.11 =>

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The Warm South
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