|09:37 pm - At least it's not raining *now*|
Walking and biking around the 'hood, I see the orange mark of death on various trees I'm fond of, like the one in the Greek Gardener's side yard or the one at the corner of the Palmerston Gardens house I lived in in the mid-80s. (Two and a half years that somehow felt like four or more. Ah, youth!) This is because the trees are dead themselves, or dying, and likely to come down on wires and the unwary. Still makes me sad.
The rainy spring has caused mold smells to begin in the basement a good month ahead of time. Can no longer hang clothes there, and must leave door closed. This may also account for the chronic sore throat and general malaise, but my acupuncturist has it too, so it might be universal allergies.
Copped a translation of the Lais of Marie de France from the Wee Free across the street. Shall probably give it The Decameron in return. The translation of both books is uninspired, but I've had it with Boccaccio's dweeby lovers and am ready for something nobler.