A lot of people have different ways to do it so we're leaving on Sunday and won't be back until the following Sunday. Right? Sunday? Oh. Saturday. Saturday the ninth. Oh. The eighth. Look at this though, we have no ceiling lights. Only the receptacles are fine. I think you'll survive. I mean it's just—why would it happen again like this? Would you have gone to live in the house of the moon, pockmarked and as if by vacated lightbulbs? We're having macarons for dessert. Someone is playing Animal Crossing. I made a few steamed zongzi, but wrapped in foil; I had no bamboo or banana leaves. Can I come over right now? Yay!
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
