It is nice that my father's birthday conveniently falls upon tomorrow, my day in which I try my hand at spontaneous poetry. I hope to honor him well, as he is quite an amazing fellow. I know that all children look to their dads at some point and think him great, but it is still true in my case. The years have only served to deepen my appreciation for my father and all the love and patience he has bestowed in guiding my life. A lot of this sentiment will flow in the following post, if God grants me the wit and clarity to express it in words.
This day went remarkably well, alternately working small tasks, listening to Leon Patillo's "Dance Children Dance" which I bought as a gift for tomorrow, and reading short essays by James Thurber. Thurber never ceases to delight me, as with P.G. Wodehouse's whims of fate, so with Thurber's daydreaming a supposed timidity away. His "Snapshot of a Dog" piece is particularly good, for the reason that Thurber is nostalgically fond of its subject. "The dog that bit people" is humorous in its accuracy - I have held the acquaintance of such miserable specimens before. Those are my thoughts for today, until tomorrow's sunrise, I leave you.
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