of decaying wood

Externally, the jollity of aged men has much in common with the mirth of children; the intellect, any more than a deep sense of humour, has little to do with the matter; it is, with both, a gleam that plays upon the surface, and imparts a sunny and cheery aspect alike to the green branch and grey mouldering trunk. In one case, however, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the phosphorescent glow of decaying wood.

I started The Scarlet Letter this afternoon. The writing is pretty awesome. These winding sentences, all pregnant with punctuation and shit. I love it. So anyway. Yeah. In bed, pretty much all day, chewing on earlyish American literature, smoking in the window, eating good cheese, listening to Rev Run on Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me... It's 2 am and the street sweeper is going by, just as it's gone by every night this week at this hour, and I can hear all the drunkies in the street, crawling back to their small, sticky existences. Haha.