The sky is the prettiest purple.

And though the last lights off the black west went, ah morning at the brown brink eastward springs. Because Seema and I are dawning Dramat members. Agreeing with our hands holding the Cole Porter chalice and the centennial book, our lips drinking Jack and our hands signing John's, we promise to have hot asses and cleave solely unto the Dramat and uphold its tradition of fine theat-er (pronounced with mock British accent). The closing bell of strike struck 5:30 something with inductions. Then to Seema's, calling shotgun and watching a roof dawn rise. My legs are numb. My hands smell like gruyere. My keys smell like beer. Living a miller's high life up 90 feet unloading weights on the rail and sitting pretty on Silliman. Happy Birthday party Liz. Thank you Seema, better half. Good morning, I'm going to bed.