Bird outside singing to something.  Me, I imagine, just make it so.  Hat on desk, the Sonic hat.  I look at it and wonder if I’d never talked to Tasha that day in the Sauvignon Blanc lot.  Then I think about wine and where I’m going with it, the winemaking idea…. How soon, how distant.  This happens every morning, thinking about everything and too much at once I feel then find some harmony only to be disrupted by something else.  How do you find autopilot at high elevation?

Whatever flavor this is, it’s strong.  What I need this morning.  My head keeps telling me today is Wednesday.  No idiot it’s Tuesday, I answer back.  Then I say to myself, What fucking difference does it make?  Feel Mike Madigan becoming more conscious and concerned for what day it is – looking forward to Friday, dreading Monday.  And I absolutely hate that about myself.  Or this new self.  So, stopping that.  I don’t know what day it is and I don’t give a shit.  I’m writing.

One of the kids yawns, then an alarm, that cheesy iPhone alarm.   Don’t know how to write …