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of headwinds and the spring's fresh insects

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

I arrived at work with a mouth- and mustache-full of this year's crop of bugs. They were driven at me during my commute by a steady wind out of the south-west that seemed to time each fresh blast of bugs with my inhalations. Seeing myself in the mirror at the office, I begin to wonder why I even iron and put on a clean shirt every morning when they always wind up rumpled and bug-stained.

But it beats taking the street car!