A slight misapprehension of our backyarad

The weather over this last, burdensome week has been remarkably reminiscent of the mosquito plagued dampness one might encounter scant latitudes from the equator. Those portions of my skin that have been left uncovered itch as if sprinkled with the devil's own compound. The stifling heat, in similar fashion, has exerted itself on my mind, making each movement infinitely heavier. I have been unable to think, and thereby, unable to write.

My novel remains untouched, my prospects dim as bookblack. Even on days such as this, when clouds, white as a gentleman's pressed shirt, sprawl across the sky as though to suggest the promise of rain (which they will not deliver), I cannot delude myself into thinking my prospects blue as the sun or green as the still-thriving ivy.

Ida believes, as I have told her, that I am focusing my efforts on the garden in mute anticipation that the worst of our fears will come to pass. She is inside sewing hems on my trousers. She plans, if our prospects do not rapidly improve, to speak with our pastor about doing small portions of piecework for the congregation. She tells me that the choir has long needed new robes.

Myself, I am well lost and preparing to swallow what pride I may have remaining. I shall speak with Mr. Rockwell on the morrow.