Tomorrow the term starts. 

And I’m not as ready as I’d hoped, or I wasn’t.  Just typed a draft of the syllabus, which any robot could do as all that is robotic I feel, no heart or sincerity to it, just recital and conformity, worship of what’s instituted.  But this term will be the means, means to what.. the end of normality in my days, and my daughter will come into the world with a writing father, one owning a successfully content and media company, and answering only to clients, and that’s it.  Need to get to early bed, so I can early wake and finalize the syllabus, pack my bag, write what I have to for client 2.  And keep my train on its invariable track, rolling with more than steams full, just writing and writing and soon that’s all I’ll do– thunder and wars in my center with conflicts only bringing profit and contentment, contentions away, away!  And me with only peace, as this new semester launches and me ready at class’ head with my notes and Composition books, the observations gleam of it all.