lately, i've been spending my morning coffee on a bench outside the octagon overlooking the lower fields and forests of stonelake farm. in the morning, i read a page or two of david samuels' recent new yorker piece "dr. kush."
at night, after group dinner and washed dishes, i steal away to the same bench, this time with whatever remains in the night's bottle. under a hundred million stars and sarah's headlamp, i read a chapter or two of lisa lutz's the spellman files.