…next glass, poured in a sec.  This house so quiet without kids in it.  I miss them.  I feel frustrated.  I know they’ll read this one day.  What will they think?—  Jack, Emma…..  What do you think?  Do you see me a writer, or just a madman?  A strutting diarist with postmodern rushes and sprints toward thoughtful intersections and Roads?

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I calm down and set the laptop on two planks in the wood floor.  Planks?  That what they’re called?  I heard something upstairs.  Think I felt an earthquake.  Thought I felt one in class, well as some of the students.  That has to be some worldly symbolic suggestion, don’t it?  Like what?  What? I need the answer.  More in wife’s shoes on kitchen floor, one tile for each foot, then toaster still plugged in I unplug it then look in the cupboard for two coffee pods I find them then put them in the machine, or one of them, turn on machine wait for it to warm up to where it can do what I need to it do, brew for morning sitting, then come back to these keys.  Only wanting to write this wine, write about it, with this last glass. I stop the session.  Watch the news, all the local events that are hardly events, no news of earthquake oh well…