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.