Wail: o we say it is the fifth when it’s actually the sixth
and technically the seventh 15 minutes after midnight.

Calm, calm down down
You’ll be alright this time.

For an age I’ve lived in the little towns, because that’s where the tiny academies were, and the little schools paid me, well, enough.

Little means no organic coffee or even sometimes tomatoes. Sometimes no dry cleaning. No dealership oil changes, no bookstore, no mailbox place.

So for all that time, the weekend drives into the urban for supplies have been a part of it all.

(One of the first things I ever wrote was a memoir when I was five. It said I was born in an apartment in the avenues. My mother read it and said no, you were born in the hospital. She was right.)

Today was a Friday and the little schools mostly don’t work you on Fridays, so I made the milk run, though in actual fact I do not haul actual milk that far.

It’s 58 miles one way now and that is pretty short by historical standards.

The main thing to tell, if this was a journal, was that I got another massage. It was pretty good.

But it’s a spill.

So instead I’ll say that during first the one way and then the other back, I studied my own personal digital landscape. It’s been composed of sixteen domains, registered here and there, hosted hither and yon.

The conclusion I reached was that some of them could be let go, but that a seventeenth was necessary also.

For the purpose of publishing the contents of 2019/04/#.txt and beyond.