That’s a strange word, isn’t it? Overcast. It’s cast over with clouds this morning. The cover is holding down all the sounds. Lawnmowers. Freeway.

I had lunch yesterday with an old friend from childhood. It was good. We grew up together in this small town, and the last time I remember having such a substantial coversation with him was about 1971 or 72. But I was just thinking that, no matter how different are the paths our lives take, we will keep our common ground. Our lives since high school have been pretty different. He’s been a cop, gotten married, moved to Oklahoma and works in IT now, while I’ve stayed close to home and lived a life of quiet desperation. But I can still see those two little kids; darned if we’re not still them.

So then last night, pretty late, I went out on the balcony to look at the view from here. I was approached by an alien from innerspace, who demanded I explain the epitath on the grave of John Keats. “Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.” I was at a loss, and he went away disappointed. You want to give it a shot?