Helloo my dearrs. I was just reading about the evil prospect of Trumpcare–pray it doesn’t come to pass. Anyway I was just reading something in a book that went like this: “Each of us had, to a greater or lesser degree, resolved to live according to his or her own system. If another person’s way of thinking was too different from mine, it made me mad; too close and I got sad. That’s all there was to it.” (Haruki Murakami, Pinball, 1973). I don’t really get the second part. Maybe because the system of thinking is one that would make one all lugubrious, like why are we here, or why must we work so hard, or something like that. But I think the greatest feeling one can get surely is that there’s some pattern to life, a meaning imprinted in our souls. So what are the seeds planted in yours, or what seeds have you planted, and are they bearing fruit? Think about that in a poem, will ya?