Suborned Perjruy

The argument of silence. I was just sitting in my chair, reading; dark clouds moved in from the west and I shut down. What I remembered happening might not have happened. I was pissed, I wanted to write, instead I was reading with a headlamp. Big storm front moved in, much thunder and lightning, but I never did lose power. I did collect 15 gallons of wash water in a very few minutes, then read another John Lescroart court-room novel. They're pretty good, great characters and complex plots, perfect for a night of thunder and a shuddering house. The driveway was fine, and the few dead-falls had already been cleared away from Mackletree, so I was able to get to town for lunch with TR, and pick up some foodstuffs. Working on the larder. Jason, one of the cooks at the pub, had saved me a five-gallon pickle bucket (they have resealable lids and user friendly handles) so I can increase my water supply, and I've found that I like the frozen Mountain Star black-bean patties. I want ten or twelve of them in the freezer because it's such a quick meal, and with wasabi mayo they're very good. I bought a large box of powdered milk and a smaller box of powdered eggs, so I can always make cornbread, and I bought a fake, powdered, coffee creamer I hope I never have to use. Chicory coffee is quite bitter. Stopped down at B's on the way home, to have a beer and some conversation. We can have the conversations because we've both read so broadly in so many different fields. His thing, this evening, was that no one read enough; that he was finding, increasingly, that no one knew what he was referring to. I refrained from shaking him. There are only ten or nine of us left, thank god I don't have horns, that even still hear the music of the night.