Poppets Don't Float, II

And yet we keep thinking about all the trifling things we usually think about, and doing all the little things we usually do, not oblivious, necessarily, to the possibility that we may be struggling to survive in the not-so-distant future, but in conscious denial. As I type this, I'm sitting at my desk with my feet up, snacking from a bowl of fresh cherries and grapes. I'm becoming increasingly aware of things we take for granted. Things that others don't have, things that we could lose. Orion just tore through here yelling "potty!" Good boy. He's in a rush because he wants to get back to his video game. Outside the sky is ominous and changing. We'll swim tonight, when the air has cooled down to 96 or so, because the water is like a bath. But at least it's wet.

I don't understand it. The architecture is all wrong. Why don't people build at least partly underground? Why aren't there solar panels all over the place? These are questions that beg closer examination, after some research.

I'm packing Luck's Dancers and poppets off to their new homes. They were each dried at some stage of painting, in the huge convection oven that we live in at present.

Tomorrow is Aubrey's birthday.