"She's dressed in black again."

I have always been susceptible to being highjacked into inadvertent trips down memory lane. But for the past several months, I've been surprisingly free of the nostalgic interlude. At the same time, the absence of that component of myself has left me nearly paralyzed. At least in the writing sense. The past few days have seen a slight return to those old sadder habits. There's no scientific explanation for it. And I don't know whether to welcome it all or curse it. I see myself in glimpses. Fun-loving. Dependable. Friendly. Surprising. But there's a little bit of morose and brooding in the mix. Ironically, I've trained myself to see them with relief. Going anywhere without my introspective episodes is like removing the training wheels from a bicycle. But in that simile, it would seem that a big girl like me would want to do just that.

I've still a touch of the coughing, but I'm mostly right as rain. Tired. Dreadfully tired. But only from how much I've gotten to do. And I cheer for that.

And I realize it can be of nearly no value to anyone to read several paragraphs about me being tired or nostalgic or hungry even. But I haven't had a moment to spare. If I had been able to see a movie, I would surely tell you what I thought of it. If you're keeping your bank book, you'll note that I still owe you an opinion on the Paul F. Tompkins Show. I shall make good. With interest. I would hate for anyone to think I had ceased to be a rabid fan. But hold fast. There are lots of things yet to come. I can't even count the number of photographs I have scanned in the past week. Prepare to have your eyeballs shown things.

Oh, but I am tired. The sleep I have tonight is destined to be of the very finest variety. No matter what.