Home late, late, late. Work has become something akin to an insane asylum. Lord how we run! It is something near two am and I am drinking wine and eating sausage. I praise God it's not Lent. Black Maple Hill on the go. To bed on the couch, lady beside, in-laws bizarrely upstairs. I pray a simple prayer: Lord, if you won't give us salvation, at least allow us a little sleep.
He answers with a "no." Our prospects seem bad in the short term, hopeful in the long term.
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