Emma booting me from bed, so I’m in this hotel couch which is so far from comfortable it’s impressive. Xmas tree, lit to right, Kerouac asleep in bed behind me. Emma in a crazed state, only wanting to talk and play and engage in games… Finally quiet, the writer thinks to self. Could change in a microbeat of beat. Hear people taking elevator just out door, walking, drunk I think. Fucking people. Why can’t we just be home. And why won’t these sloppy sludge-bladders go to sleep? Don’t they have to work tomorrow, any of them? My mood is low and I drank the last of the coffee in this room. So if I wake early I’ll just have to tap natural fuel, something to start session.
Think Emma finally fell to some sort of sleep shape. But then the clowns upstairs thump and jump and just hard-step on their floor ’cause they’re animal idiots who think this hotel is their private dumbshit den. Need sleep, I know, okay… It’s late, but not. And right now, I’m not. I’m a tired writing daddy, thinking about everything I have to do at the winery, and how to make the day read-worthy… Just go to sleep. You need bed, you need rest. Writers can’t always write.