Last hour about to start.  Have to write final essay/submission sheet.  Promised to have it ready for students last week, I believe.  And I felt stupid, quite stupid not having it ready last meeting.

Wrote assignment.  And now, 51 minutes remaining.  Love the feeling of having all my work done, but still get a bit antsy or shaky when I’m this, like this… too productive.  All wonderful, especially now with this new movement this month, the month I turn 40, of scribbling everything.  Or like now typing everything.  And this will not be a valetudinarian effort.  I can’t incur the results of such.  Placed, present, me.  Now and onward.  40.. fuck.  Can’t believe.  But it’s here.  This month.  28 days from this Mike Madigan you read now.

Need a glass of something.  SB.  Or a beer like Monday.  What… I can’t decide.  ‘Cause I think obsessively, excessively.

1492 words for day, before this sentence.  Columbus, explorer.  I feel like an explorer, to tell you truth.  Now I’m just getting silly in thought.  Sipping the cold coffee in cup on desk.  When did I make this cup.  So long ago I can’t remember.  Who cares.  Sip.  Helps to wake me. Feeling the run, still.

Think I may have one sip left.  Wine on brain, wine and where it is, is always to me and in my view… the rows. Those forming clusters.  In this last hour, I write wine and about wine, for and from wine.  What about it.  What else can I say about wine in this last hour, now 36 minutes, after writing essay assignment for my last teaching term for the foreseeable anything.  Don’t care.  Wine is there for me.  Wine is always there for me.  When I’m running, when I’m not.  She urges me to run—NO, tells me to so I can alive be longer, taste more of her geography and shapely ideology.