Still haven’t pulled night’s cap from 

that Syrah bottle.  You know what, I will now—  Now that I’m back on floor with laptop on lap and thoughts around me like those annoying pigeons on Market Street or in the Park, wherever, I’m more fiery in my movement.  I need to move quicker.  Tempted to start drinking the coffee I made for morrow.  But I can’t loiter in such nonsensical swirl.  I need sleep.  Waking earlier’s better.  Now I’m not even making sense.  But it’s sense, a pyramiding promise.  That’s what I self-tell.  Looking up at light, breathing— Zen, yes.  Collected— inventory, me Self thoughts pages—