Fireworks: A Liveblogging

Hmm, fireworks are happening

*goes up to his roof*

Kelsey has signed off.

Kelsey_iPod has signed on.

Whoa

I can see three different fireworks shows from up here

And I can hear a fourth

And a loooot of echoes

Those fireworks sound like gunshots

And those ones sound like explosions

Those ones sound like thunder

And those ones sound like when you delete a stone block in Minecraft

It's so neat, I hear a firework from one direction and I hear its echoes from a bunch of directions all around me

Whoa

I think they used like twelve times as many fireworks in the finale as they did during the rest of the show

This whole time it was like "oh hmm fireworks"

And then at the end it was like "WHOA FIREWORKS"

Kelsey has signed on.

Kelsey_iPod has signed off.

Summer's Day

I rise - unbidden by alarm-of-clock, which lies quiescent on my dresser, set for a time later than this - and greet the day.

It is summer, in southern California, sufficiently distant from the hazes of the City of Angels for nature's charms to freely expose themselves. The birds chirp, tweet, and twitter, somewhere in the green-leaved trees. The sun shines golden-bright, her majesty somewhat concealed by a thin layer of cloud, which turns her light into a broad, diffuse glow; still too strong a radiance to observe directly. Even the air possesses a pleasant character, smelling somewhat of flowers; except in that stairway, which reeks (as ever) of the ever-present cigarette.

(Is it some constant in the character of the cigarette-man which renders him so very slobbish - even when an ash-tray stands just feet away, in plain view? Or is it that they are no more slobbish than other men, but simply given more opportunity to indulge in their character flaws?

(The latter appeals more strongly to me, suggesting agreement with what I know of the nature of Man; but observing the sheer volume of cigarettes lying scattered there, it is very difficult to believe.)

Cigarettes aside, I was - am - moved by the day. I look upwards, at the pale blue sky, and to myself am uncontrollably compelled to whisper, "How beautiful - how beautiful - how beautiful!" (Though, in this case, without the more regrettable consequences implied by that context.)

So why do I sit here, in the half-lit bowels of the computery-realm, staring through portholes at the sunlight instead of living within it?

Beats me.