April 13, 2019

Planted cosmos and a fringe tree. Listened to the spells of ferocious rain, followed by spells of birdcalls. Wrote all through the afternoon until it was evening and the lawn had a fragrance I don’t remember from before.

Looking back, the Biddyocracy, as I foretold, wasn’t the least bit interested in the truth of things, but only in the feel of things. And they were very selective as to whose feelings mattered. It is eternally bad, eternally wrong, and can’t, now, be helped.