Last May, I shared the first batch of Tennis Balls that Make Me Sad, thinking that by publishing them, I had exorcised the world of the despair-inducing orbs of the grass court or at least whatever it was within me that caused my eyes to redden and run at the sight of tennis balls in their fallen state.

I was wrong.

I have seen that, like much else in the absurd Grand Slam  of life, the melancholy parade of fluorescent yellow spheres of sorrow never ends.  I have given up my mission of eradication through documentation and instead aspire to anesthetization- to become numb to the reality of the omnipresence of these beacons of futility and hopelessness.

(Click images for captions, if so inclined.)