I don't really have anything to say today. Kennda's home (yeh Kennda!) and the story about why she missed her flight on Sunday makes me laugh. On NPR this morning the poetry reading-guy with the annoying voice ("Writer's Almanac") read Berryman by W.S. Merwin. I found these lines interesting:



I had hardly begun to read

I asked how can you ever be sure

that what you write is really

any good at all and he said you can't



you can't you can never be sure

you die without knowing

whether anything you wrote was any good

if you have to be sure don't write



I wonder if its true. I'm not much of a writer, so, I'll probably never know.