“Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines everywhere.”
I know. He’s an imaginary creature and Shakespeare wrote him into imaginary being somewhere around the year sixteen hundred. Still, I like Feste so much I had him tag along on the morning walk with Cybèle.
Because of the wind still blustering through town, the clouds massed in a semi-circle above the rising sun. Made the curve and the vastness of the sky apparent, setting the town to its proper dimensions in contrast.
The dog managed to scarf something, of course, while my head bubbled with a bit of mirth. I was imagining a bit of foolery in which Feste took on Donald Trump as Malvolio. The mirth was temporary because what I’ve read of Monsieur Trump makes him out to be too narcissistic to play-act anything other than his own fantasy, for one. For another, I doubt Feste would waste breath in that direction. At any rate, the imaginary Feste gave up on Trump and took in the view from a terrace called Place du chateau where busted beer and vodka bottles glint in the rising sun.
A power surge protector exploded in my home work area yesterday, frying my back-up computer and my scanner. The good news: I’d finished scanning documents and disconnected the scanner from my laptop. The not so great news: loss of photos I hadn’t transferred to an external hard drive, and no more scanner. All loss be relative, same as all gains.
For the nonce, I pursue the slow poking at soft spots in the draft, with a buzz of questions circling my head.