another day of three pages. Thanksgiving with family. Semester end, can’t wait. I’m beat, beaten, beaten down till I can only sing. Nightcap then sleep, I need sleep if tomorrow’s meant to be the “black friday” they say. I don’t want to capitalize because of the energy I’d have to spend, allocate, now the run’s getting to me. Could use some of that turkey I took from Katie’s house, on that role, one of them, with the spicy mustard Alice bought me the other day. Why, why do I have to work tomorrow, it’s supposed to rain, and I only want to write, scribble, notes and vignettes, just obscure words, one I found tonight: raduliform. IS that a word or is my source conning me? Teaching, such a funny thing, or it’s funny to me anyway, how we’re expected to assign a certain number of assignments and conform and fit into a word count, one stipulated by the department or the board, some “board” or something. I hate them all, the powers, whatever be. This, this moment and couch and pillow at my right, I could use them, I might, it’s that kind of night. I’m in need of another run, and I could do it, I’m bored, I want to test my Self. Sleep sounds and appears amazing when I think of it. The Merlot, just one sip, appearing a bit oxygen-clawed. Why? See, I’d never be successful as a winemaker, so why do I think of doing it again, really– Tomorrow night needs to be productive and not how supervisors say you need to be, but something unique and renowned, somehow. Like Poe and how he thought of his bride, abide, ride, and I’ll write tomorrow night till I can’t and not at all hide. I’ll make it a ‘mine’ and a ‘my’.