Sunday Morning Coming Down

Up early (for me). All one of my emails have been answered and I've finished my daily Colombian; coffee, not reefer, you hungover potheads. Carolyn is working and I'm alone once more. Going to watch the Lady Vols play Marist at noon on the telly. I hope that Pat has them ready, because Marist has shown that they can beat the best.

The mountains are embraced by their ubiquitous blue haze. I guess that is why they are called the Smokies. My mind is saturated by an even bluer fog. Sometimes everything seems so meaningless, but then, nothing has to have a meaning; it is what it is. We deal with life from moment to moment. The future exists only in our imaginations; the past is entirely in our hearts.
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On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
—Johnny Cash