10:15p. The fenced Nature of this paginated persistence, pendulum, taxing. Bored of certain recurrences. Need my own office. Offsite. Can’t believe I didn’t type yesterday. Occupied, but not so much to the valley of inaction. Blaming the vino. Tonight, blaming the Bordeaux bully of Cab Sauv.
Downstairs, this couch tempts the scribe with sweet laziness. Refusing, waiting for returning rain. What is it about deluge, downfall, paired with ink? Tomorrow, pouring a fair distance from the bunker. Will be bringing equipment, paper, you can be assured. For some reason I feel uneasy in this scribed stretch. Maybe ‘cause I plan to post. Again, I’ll state: freewriting, delicious, a mind’s ferrel feast. Need another sip. This Cab tastes more ravishingly rampaging that I recall, from the eve’s early.
Thinking of turning off this writing film, nestle in music, wine lounge tunes, as I did with my colleague 2nite, sipping that Zin/Syrah blend. We spoke of possibilities, what one could do with the right idea, in wine’s pond of potential. Listening to the night’s podcast, again. Just making sure it agreeably flowed. Wishing the rain would come back. The weather man, empty-headed actor. He promised steady precipitation, a truthful movement in the atmosphere. Still will type.
Wondering what the drive will be like. Love driving, but I see my little ship’s mileage accumulating, from adjuncting all those years. Need a new car; more pressure to write, sell pages. Lovely, like the walk in Annadel a couple days ago. That forest, park, so mysterious, pleasurably menacing. Should I return by mySelf? Is it safe? What a ridiculous pose. Is this Room safe? Is this laptop a non-hostile package? How about this Cab? Worrying too much at my age advanced. Need another healthy pour...
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