Racing like a madwoman pickng stringbeans and deadheading petunias, portulacas. Cutting fingers instead of glass in the frameshop as I wrestle with a print and frame that covers more square feet than me.
Will I know enough next lifetime to use time more efficiently and leave some for enjoyment? Will I remember that it flies, the years like months, the days like hours? Will there be a bigger, badder me next time around?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Oh you make putting frames around glass like rocket science. What aspersions might be cast at you from say… car mechanics?
You’d think replacing a burnt out brake light would be no big deal on a Saturday.
Fitzgerald never wrote about that. Too busy with girls in fountains.