It is raining.

There is comfort to be had here. The softness of the light, the sound of falling drops splashing onto shingle, the sensation of dry skin relaxing in the presence of atmospheric moisture. Prismatic globes of water trapped between the strands of a finely-meshed storm screen. The rain howling down, slanted by wind until it rained at a sharp angle.

While he was here, Brad gave me three books to read. Two I plowed through quickly—Clifford Simak's Way Station and Salinger's Catcher In The Rye. The third, George R. R. Martin's A Game Of Thrones, is the one that's currently cracking me up.

Most everyone I'm friends with will admit that at some point in their lives, a book they've read has made them cry.

This is a good thing. It's a sign of empathy.

Some quotes:"The only thing that's wrong with me is what's missing. Owen Meany is what's missing."

I finished Look to Windward tonight. I wish I knew exactly why Iain Banks' Culture novels aren't being published in the States. They're thoughtful works with a lot of depth—something that I think is lacking from everyday fiction in the States now.

Here I sit at my computer desk at the end of another day. Edmund is perched on top of the desk, sunning himself under the lights of the ceiling fan and looking beatifically down upon his chosen human.

All is well here in my quiet little corner of the world. Jeff is curled up in bed, reading Iain Banks' Use Of Weapons. I'm pleased that he's finally getting addicted to this lovely (and unfortunately, mostly out-of-print) science fiction series. Mostly, I just want someone to talk to about what I'm reading.