Well, survived another Thanksgiving! What is it Nietzsche said? What does not kill us, makes us linger. Something like that. Another bird gone to its autumn grave, another parody of a celebration. Oh well. The small rain down can rain. This one had to be this way, for various reasons. But I'm damned if I'll do much more obligatory feasting in this life. It's too short for that. After I'm dead, you can celebrate all the holidays with me that you like. Prop up my stiffened corpse at the head of every table, and I'll drink with you toast for toast. Or at any rate, you can put the cup to my dried-up lips and let the wine trickle down my chin, each time. It will gleam in the candlelight. Very festive.