Greetings from the edge. Restoration work continues, at about the same speed as demolition work. Unravelling stringhoppers and then ravelling them up again. (Ravioli?) Good exercise for my amusing muse, whoever she be. What is the Greek for this?) But which part is the restoration and which the demolition leaves me puzzled.
Things are here as always, changeless change, a bit for the better a bit for the worse, a bit closer to the grave, nothing dramatic to tell of – certainly no bullet holes through stump windows as you report, Nature's way of telling you... -- except the excitement generated by the slow cultivation of boredom coupled with a gradual distaste for everything the world has to offer and some of the things it doesn't. The writing of this letter, for instance, is an Event in my life that I shall remember, review -- oh, I could have said it that way, ever so much more clever, and I should have mentioned such and such, etc. -- as I have anticipated and savoured the prospect these last several months. TODAY'S THE DAY! Hi, Hum. Ho, hum. Something to DO. Contact (Roger Wilco) with another person. Well, it's not as great as I describe it, really. It has its mundane moments, such as the mundane boredom of studying Sinhalese – and such low-level low-count low-down kind of boredom if ever there was one -- and such as the sensual high of food every day, but there's disadvantages to every profession, as well as every antifession.
As a bullet found its way inside your stump and plugged Mirotchka's sunflower painting, have you considered hanging it on the outside instead of over your bed? Over the bed sounds like a very tough shot, even for a great billiards player. Outdoors the flowers may get enough sun, air, and bullet holes to germinate.
Well, I'd love to write more now, but my muse, my very own moose, is calling me, so I think I'll go out on the porch now and be bored some more. Ah, Wilderness!