Lingering on at the homeless shelter, trying not to let it be a central fact of my existence, despite that I sleep and eat there. There is something morbid about it, not to say nightmarish. So, conscientiously, I continue reading: Rex Stout and Jules Verne lately. So far I haven't been disappointed in my rediscovery of Nero Wolfe, but Verne's decidedly dumb-ass francomaniac anglomiso/philia is beginning to wear thin. What a mediocre intelligence, is what I find myself saying to myself. Anyway, it somewhat distracts from the sudden glaring horrors of existence here. For example: I went up to the university to do my 'mail yesterday, and decided to skip the music library in the Hamilton Library and go directly to the music building on my way off campus, and found something strikingly reminiscent of Norman Bates's basement: Dirt--actual, physical dirt. Doors falling off their hinges. Unlocked, unsupervised, filthy practise rooms with scarred, neglected, out-of-tune instruments. Dispirited little groups of students. An awful gloom and sad, moldering silence. And this right across the street from the regal nay palatial Founders' Building. Ooh. And there's more, but I'm scared to expatiate on it--lest I attract it.... The weather continues lovely indeed.

Bush is going for it. I'm out on a limb here with dire prediction: As of the twenty-third, those with eyes to see will see; the Reign of Terror will have begun. Woe to them who think their innocence will protect them.