By Emily Dickinson
A lane of Yellow led the eye
Unto a Purple Wood
Whose soft inhabitants to be
Surpasses solitude
If Bird the silence contradict
Or flower presume to show
In that low summer of the West
Impossible to know—
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We are taking Daniel to Richmond on Friday for a job interview -- technically we didn't have to go with him since they would have given him a train ticket, but we figured we'd go to parks and Civil War stuff and dinner with Cheryl, so we are driving him down. So I spent Thursday doing all the things I would otherwise have needed to get done Friday, like my DS9 review and folding laundry, before we went to pick up Daniel and drop off a package that came here for Adam.
Since Adam was too busy to have dinner with us, we came home and had ravioli with Dave's Gourmet butternut squash sauce which is the greatest pasta sauce ever (they make a masala marinara too that I have to try), then we watched this week's Gracepoint (which I must admit that I am enjoying, though I am really hoping they do NOT change the murderer from Broadchurch even if they change what happens to the central family -- it's too important in retrospect to so many other stories).
See No Evil
Hear No Evil
Speak No Evil
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