On my last glass 

of Cabernet, set on waking early tomorrow morning.  When I wake, if I do actually, I’ll barrage the book.  23 minutes to just relax, after a 10-hour day in wine’s yoke.  So, I’m here, just on the couch, thinking.  These are just writer thoughts, and I’m just writing them.  That’s what I do I guess.  That’s what all writers do.  I turn in the news, Fidel Castro dead, and I think about my age.  I need to wake early tomorrow.  Soon waking early will be an arduous thorn.  Side affect of chance, living an artist.  Okay, I’ll keep going.