Midday espresso kicked off a supernova—you shoulda seen it blazing out from the fossae, brighter than the September sun without— I had been reading, felt some kind of ekstasis, then came home and remembered the slowness and worry. I played with my tremolo pedal for a while, and that was fun, but a slow tide of reproach is mounting and will continue to mount as long as I am not writing another book. When I am not writing there are no grid lines to plot against (school doesn’t count), and it was wonderfully relaxing for a while; then I discovered that I had drifted out to sea, and that the sky is overcast with a uniform glaucous glow, and I don’t know which way is north.
