Book Report: Dragonsinger
In Which Your Humble Blogger goes home again, to find that everything seems really small. Was it always this small? I remember it being bigger, somehow.
In Which Your Humble Blogger goes home again, to find that everything seems really small. Was it always this small? I remember it being bigger, somehow.
In Which Your Humble Blogger, rather than his usual brutal recognition of the Day, goes with something a trifle more sentimental.
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t mean to disparage the legitimate celebration of a successful woman, but for crying out loud.
In Which Your Humble Blogger manages not to leave the conclusion to a fifth note for this rainy Shabbat.
In Which Your Humble Blogger destroys the whole world.
In Which Your Humble Blogger looks at three words, or two, or really one. But what a word!
In Which Your Humble Blogger hums while he types, which has got to be annoying for everybody.
In Which Your Humble Blogger puts on his John Fluevogs and his fly green socks.
In Which Your Humble Blogger reaches for comparison and loses his balance and topples over into a vat of custard. Intelligent custard. That talks!