The clock taunts me.  Need a glass of wine.  This doing nothing and waiting at the end of a fairly busy day is a story to itself.  Need some music in this back corner where they have me.  Maybe I should go get some wine and bring it back here, that red blend–  No, wait, wait for the day, earn your glass then go for the long drive to Oakmont.  Can’t a writer just relax?  In Spain?  Writing in the little book everything I see and hear, how even the traffic sounds different, the menus feel different when held between thumb and first two fingers of each hand.

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