He so much wanted to be adroit, but he couldn’t. All day working; the contracted writing assignments then coming home to pack his bag for lecture then lecture and now home, quick eat then the Albariño that was gifted to him and now what. No, he wouldn’t say the S-word. He’d keep writing. In fact, he ate too fast probably from the quick pace of the day just not able to let it go and now his core discomforted him. He couldn’t sleep. So then what. Dream. While awake. Of that novel. Wake early and put the most meteoric of dents in it. And then what. He’d figure that out, eventually. To some medium roast, A.M.