Yay Epstein, if I do say so myself.

It was a diamond all right, shining in the grass half a dozen feet from the blue brick wall.

You almost never get openings like that any more, and I was pleased to come by it in the top shelf of the man's book case, mounted sensibly atop his desk, where he could, if he chose, get to it with little effort. That opening is from a mystery, one that is little spoken of these strange days, because in its way the mystery typifies the state of things that apply during these indeed strange, uncertain days.

It is certain I will stay nearby; there seems to be a concerted effort to see that I am given at least one meal a day. I checked back on School House Road to see if there were any more missing cat posters, particularly posters wanting Tonka to know that all is forgiven and such.

I am thinking it might be an interesting project to collect photos of missing cat posters here in Montecito. To what end, you ask? Did Art Spiegelman know from the start what he had when he began drawing the story of Maus? Did Mr. Hammett truly know what he had when he began writing The Dain Curse? I think not. In both cases. Photos of missing cat posters may have an arch of theme that will reveal itself. Or not.

A cat with a work ethic must have some project, something beyond hunting, something beyond being hunted. A cat with a work ethic needs always to have a project. Never mind if the project doesn't pan out; it is the at of being engaged that pans out.

Bartelby chose not to.

Epstein choses to.