It is 4:48 pm on Saturday and the 68-degree breeze is gently rocking like babies through my kitchen windows, rustling the ivy, carrying with it the delicate dinging of my neighbor�s wind chimes. I can hear the ice-cream man on the next block, the boxy white truck plastered with pictures of bomb-pops, chocolate �clairs, and strawberry shortcake bars, unchanged since 1970, faded by years of the sun�s love. It plays a music-box version of �The Entertainer,� its little notes getting comfortingly and progressively flat with the Doppler effect.

It is spring. And although we�re at fucking war, I can�t help indulging myself in the nostalgic feeling that all is right in the world.

Back to writing the thesis. I know I�ve been scarce for months and months but I�ll write more soon.

Happy spring to everybody. I feel a convalescent newness.