I always forget this time of year just how far north we are. Until the sun sets at 11 p.m. and then decides he forgot his keys at some all-night bar, or thinks maybe just one more, and then, really, I'll head to bed. Or not.
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"...he dwelt as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading the valleys or crossing the plains or climbing the mountain tops..."
peasant glasses. no stems. solid sides and a tough bottom. drink up.