My beard is heavy and January is near full. This morning’s three hour study is of a village I’d consider to flow through if I was a canal. Five more years of this daily practice and I will stake claim to my first honest stroke—hopefully not the lack-of-oxygen-to-the-brain kind of stroke. Those are always very honest. Like Dickinson wrote and put in a sad drawer,
I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it’s true—
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe—
But boy do they fake paint! At least, for now, I know that I do.