Wasted Sunday

I'm up late and drifting. Between the train and the blogs, I've read in five different ways today, and only one of them will be useful. And I was talking to somebody -- wasn't I? Just now I got myself involved in a chat fight, what a waste of carpal tunnels. It's supposed to continue tomorrow. But it won't. Will and June to the rescue.

Will and June need a title for their play. My best guess so far was after yoga last Thursday, "A matter of Will." But it won't work, because I refuse to let Will appropriate the title. He can't have it. If I finish the play by Wednesday, I can have the entire flight time to come up with the title.

I'm skipping gym tomorrow, it's decided.

I wanted to blog about Robert Olen Butler and the "white-hot space where you dream" and then also Ron Rozelle and "Description and Setting" to say that one is silly and the other is helpful, maybe to 10-year-olds. I know what the difference between metaphor and simile is. It's just like butterflies.