And one more thought,

again:  Why am I seeing these things now, so late, at THIRTY-FUCKING-FIVE?  I have this urge now to be yes a novelist and fiction writer but as well a journalist.  I blame Hem, and Hunter S.  I’m inspired so easily but this will be the last time.  This is the type of writer I am now– so now: Alive upstairs asleep as is little Kerouac and I’m here on the couch and these punching of the Apple keys seem to be louder in presence and sound wave.  I should go to bed but now I’m feeling full as I did the other night.  Don’t want to wake feeling sick as I did.  Will have some sparkling water– that sounds lovely.  Alice bought me some Perrier the other night.  -10:10PM

I’m still up and I should be asleep.  My wife will be angry, I know, but I’m bubbling in curiosity and ambition and inner-riot.  I love this.  I WILL be up at 5AM.