Unclean

The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.

I go to the post office. I buy a 75c money order and a stamped envelope for $2.56. I send it to the Florida Turnpike, because yesterday I had no US dollars and the toll took no plastic.

Savannah is 3 hours away. It's a pleasant, uneventful drive. I check into a fine, small room in a large, old, renovated house on East Anderson. The area seems to be in the throes of regeneration.

I walk past boarded up homes and businesses on my way to Off The Grill. For lunch/tea. It's very uninviting from the outside (https://twitter.com/sebrose/status/896496918922186752) but the food is excellent and cheap.

I narrowly miss a total soaking. The heavens explode with thunder, lightning, and rain, which I watch from the first floor verandah. Then I do some work, read, doze, avail myself of the washing machine. It's just as well there's a washing machine in the house - the local laundry is closed ;)

Later, I go for a couple of pints to the American Legion. It's hot and sultry outside again, but the bar is cooled. I drink a local Service IPA and read Seveneves.

The first interlocutor is an Ayn Rand fan. We don't see eye to eye, but the short conversation is somewhat enlightening. The next is a guy who works in an organic aquaponics business, growing kale, chard, and rucola(rocket). They use fish (tilapia) to fertilise the water, generating extra income by harvesting the fish when they get too big.

I wander down through Forsyth Park, the sky lit velvet blue by distant flashes of lightning. Groups of tourists are being spoiled by guides describing ghostly apparitions.

Bravely, I head home for bedtime tea and toast.