I spent most of the evening in a beer garden, enjoying the spring weather. Then I slept. I leave you with this:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Until tomorrow.

Diversion of the day: Crossword puzzles. If you’re stumped, say, ‘Whatever, Wayne Robert Williams,’ and move on.