Up with Kerouac, and he slept well last night, thankfully. Only able to make one cup this morning, as that’s the last of my stash. Want to have a sitting this morning as I did with yesterday’s, whether in Kenwood’s lot, or Hood Mountain, or Annadel (which I haven’t done in a while, actually). So composed, even though deathly tired, in the Kenwood lot. Just know, journal, that I plan to be laser-like with my lines this morning. He just became frustrated with my typing, that I’m not playing with him. And he’s right. I shouldn’t be writing in front of him, when we could be playing, talking. “Stop, dada, stop,” he says. I can’t argue. I have no argument. “You’re right, Jackie, you’re right,” I say. “Dada, dada… play, play…” he says, tossing the balloon up, at me. It bounces from my head to the floor. Need more coffee, more Jackie time.