Every time I walk up to the doors of my apartment building, I am reminded of similar doors in Germany and in Italy. The metal mailboxes line one side, spewing junk mail and, just today, a Korean tract. I would never trade my experiences of passing out tracts, but I feel an odd distance from such a vivid memory. The windows, too, all white and sliding; everything about them says "foreign country" to me.
Well, I have taken all but two doses of my medicine in little packets, and am feeling marginally better. I was glad I only taught kindergarten today, though.
If anyone is interested in reading a killer children's book, I would recommend Dear Mr. Blueberry. It is one story in all of the hundred I've probably read since last week that really sticks out to me. In fact, it inspired me to want to write a children's book. Perhaps with my lovely writing partner, Ms. Anna, who has had a lovely idea for a story.