Saturday, neither in the park nor the fourth of July

What will I make for breakfast this morning? I had a thought last night before bed, but I didn’t write it down and now don’t remember. I’m reading China Mountain Zhang (1992) ๐Ÿ“š by Maureen F. McHugh. First edition, but the price bumped up 95ยข with a sticker on the fly leaf before it was bought. A printer’s error? The cover is familiar, as if I have read this or spent time with it in ’92, but it’s otherwise new to me and enjoyable.

A sometimes chameleon, I mimic the style of writers, the feel of their words. Or perhaps the ink rubs off when I rub my hands over the book enough. I’m not conscious I have this ink on my hands until I scribble, and then it gets messy all over the paper. Do all readers feel this? Oatmeal, that was it.

A songbird sings outside in the snow. I don’t recognize the song; I never learned their names.

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