If I get a piece of sawdust in one of my eyes, I can just read that story about the prostitute. If only it would also clean up my back yard. There's an old trampoline back there that I really need to take apart.

Because now that I'm an old man, I weep every time I read that story, every single time, because... she is me.

There's a part of that story that is interesting. He draws in the dirt, but it doesn't say what he was drawing... or writing. Some people have figured that he was writing the names of the men in the group ready to stone the prostitute who had been with her.

And they all leave.

But the words he speaks to her after they all leave slay me every time.

"Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you? "

"No one, sir. "

"Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more."

Every time this makes me weep.

Anyway... I seem to have taken this down a deep religious pathway when you were just talking about cleaning up your bacl yard. I feel like I should offer to come over and help you tote some shit around to the trash cans or the curb or whatever.