I'm hopeful that Saturday brings warm, sunny weather because I intend to go fishing Saturday morning. The choice of fishing venue has been drizzling through my mind lately. Shall we ride the train to White Rock Lake? Shall we fish in my neighborhood's little Glendover Pond and shorten the drive time? Should we drive to the cool pier at Cooper Lake? Should we try once more the nearly-perfectly-dependable ponds at Park Hill Prairie, and hope to see meadowlarks and native wildflowers? Should we combine the fishing at Lake Ray Roberts with the chance to see the lovely zebra longwings butterfly? These are all the dilemmae posed by the terrible burden of choice.
I like that my friends' list is the kind of place in which I can get friended by a Ukrainean techno music netlabel. I fell asleep last night with my mp3 player in my ears, and woke at a very early hour to the strains of a vigorous Rachmaninoff piano piece. I wish I had the kind of livejournal in which I could report that the piano piece inspired a vivid lucid dream, and you were there and you and you and you, but instead I have the kind of livejournal in which I can only report a scramble for the "off" button. I would have preferred the sound of falling rain--though I'm eager to hear the rest of the piano piece now that I am rested. It was just a bit too much like thunder--at two in the morning.