88

Coffee already made and in tumbler. Should go to bed now, honestly. No more SB, just under the ambient light in the living room. Babies and wife asleep— finally Zen, peace, a still, a certain solitude longed for from the writerfather. Alarm, 4AM. I’ve done it once, and I have to do it, now, necessitated by my understanding of time’s barbaric brevity.
I rub my face, wishing I had eight hours tomorrow to write, market my ideas and blog, sell wines and my brand, sell everything— me and the writings, whatever. This is the bottom 9th for mM.
Growl loud.