By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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My Monday as usual involved laundry and sorting photos from the weekend, plus some other chores and a bit of screaming at idiots on the internet -- at least election day is tomorrow and I won't have to listen to any more voting-related bullshit. It was over 65 degrees, so a really nice day for a long walk.
We caught up on last night's episodes of The Gilded Age, as overwrought as ever, and Maigret, wondering if the two storylines converge. Now we're watching the start of the new season of Lupin, which has too many evil women but the production is good. The bald eagles we saw in Elm Park last weekend:
