443
Today is Shakespeare’s birthday. I didn’t want to go to bed without acknowledging that.
And it’s the big 443. That’s a rough one. That’s when you wake up and realize you’re more than halfway to 884. And 884 is old. That’s Eleanor of Aquitane old. And then you start wondering “Yes, I’m universally considered the greatest writer in the English language. But what have I really accomplished?” And then you write a sonnet about time.
You’re not actually still reading this, are you? I’m off to bed.