Another Saturday morning, another marble moved from the not quite infinite number in the cookie jar and into the old milk bottle. A thousand weekends, Saturdays and Sundays, those days when we seem to do the things that define who we really are. I write this from my desk at the office. Enough said. Two nights away from the Brazos have left me a little somber. I've grown dependant upon the flowing river's cleansing, constant renewal. Perhaps tonight.