I extended my early evening run to 7 miles today.  Was refreshed by coming upon two beautiful, seasonally-clad girls strolling along the way.  Even got to say ‘hello’ to one—hey, so far, that’s the highlight of my day.

Just now, post-run cooldown, sitting on a hill in the cemetery in eighty degree heat and brilliant sunshine, I found myself singing “It’s the good old summertime, it’s the good old summertime…”  Ha!  Where the hell did that song pop into my mind from?  Sometimes, here, I feel like I’m channeling simple pleasures for the dead:  I’m drinking a beer for Hugo G. (died 1897) over there   or  I’m singing this song for Martha B. (died 1923) over there .  But I’m almost sure that it’s all just my simple, highly suggestible imagination.

If truth be told, I’d bet that the dead don’t want to have dick or diddly squat to do with me.  I’m a-sensed that my life energy, if anything, serves as a form of distressing terrorism to the life bereft.  Yes, it’s true, I’m the Osama of the Cemetery:  running like a banshee, drinking like a sailor, expounding like a poet-warrior, and pissing like a lost Irishmen afoul of all the tombs.

God help me if I ever die, for I fear the dead will seek, and have, their revenge.