From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in Saltree, Savannah, Georgia, this is obscure

season four in American tragedy.

I am your host, your friend, your your lover, your literary mansplainer in chief and

Georgianologist Michael E. and Black International, man of misery sweating a little bit here.

I know I always begin these things with the weather, but you know, that's top of mind for

me when you're sweaty and a little bit dizzy.

I was dizzy the other day, I had to lay down for several hours, just, you know, kind of,

you've run to the mill vertigo, which I don't get very often, but I do get some times.

I don't know if it was the heat or dehydration or what it was, but if dehydration was the

cause, I've got myself a piping hot cup of English breakfast tea right now, a splash

of milk, and of course to crumbly digestive, you can hear me sliding the saucer over so

I can get better access to them when the tea cools off just a little bit and you'll

be glad to know I just plucked a hair out of my tea.

So I think it was, if I'm being perfectly honest, I think it was a synthetic fiber that came

from the inside of a dog bed.

It doesn't matter.

That's not interesting.

Really nothing interesting going on for me.

The past week, been a very quiet week in Soul Tree Savannah.

I haven't minded it too much.

It's nice to be quiet at home, nice to do little, or nothing, haven't been writing, haven't

been really doing much, been taking some walks through Savannah, solo with my kid and

...