Don’t like being rushed with my writings, but at times it produces unexpected’s. All the songs playing into these phones, sending me overseas. On travel, needed exoduses, for the BOOKS. Was just writing about last night’s ’09 Pinot, from Carneros. Need to sip more Pinot. Feel like I placed mySelf in a Cabernet coffin. No, not that extreme, but along lines around there, that. Was just writing as well about this day, on which I’m paid. The Self-publishing budget cut from total. Never going back in. It belongs to vinoLit now, forever. Battery fading, on this fragile, perhaps slightly overused laptop. My little monster. So glad it’s here with me, collaborating with the mocha. The invisible aromatic coffee fog in this building, enough to make anyone not go back to work. Read, write, relax, all three. Whatever you want, I suppose. Mocha2, almost gone. How did that happen? This morning, odd shades to sun. Would have pulled over to capture a couple stills, but, had to be There. At work.
Mike looked through his old entries, with what remained of the time allocated for lunch, his break. He had 13 minutes left, yes. But he wanted 13 hours. Double. An entire week, away, just to write, like one of his former students had done. He would do that, soon. The publishing money would take all tickets, tabs. He had to make it work this time, he knew. He was out of second chances, retakes with budgets, he knew. Should he try to stop the mochas? Were they rational expenses, writing overhead? He somehow saw them warranted, managed to approve them as pen expenses till now. So, would it be foolish to stop? No more clock tick. No tocks, either. He packed his bag, frustrated, but with a mocha. Tomorrow’s cup, or cups, also approved. It was his company, right? -1:30pm