7:50, full from dinner and sipping this Zin at the counter pretending I’m Hemingway at a bar.

Thinking fuck all these projects.  My readers want to know, some say sarcastically. No one cares what you know or what you think other know, or your assessment of anything.  Disgusted with humans tonight, so I’m going to let you know.  Lucky you.

Giants are losing, so I’m going to need more of this Zin, Bonneau, bought the other night when Chris and I were at 4th Street.

People, HUMANS, annoy me.  Should have ‘o/ver’ be about that.  I see much better now that certain flesh things have been cut out of my days like a piece of lard from a steak.

I take a stand or state something and I’m wrong, always.  No woe-is-me speak, just confirmed actuality.  Seclusion, the solution.  Oregon, and other states.  Paris on 2/1/22… need to message my friend and again confirm.

Just a vent, and an irrational one.  Maybe this Zin will teach me something, say something like I hope wine always will and lately has failed to deliver anything.. music or sagacity, insight, images.

Giants still playing horribly—  OH wait, bases loaded now after a single.  Not getting hopes up, and honestly getting bored with the game and more into my mood and this mediocre Zinfandel.  Looking at more houses off the Square again, forgetting about Sant Rosa, even the Skyhawk houses we’ve been talking about.

Mood a bright slice of venom.  Re-reading something someone wrote about me a bit ago, my fangs more glimmer.  Don’t turn off game but mute it.  Coltrane is all I hear, thankfully.  “In A Sentimental Mood”, for sure.  The night improves, tonally and elementally.  Me here alone, perfect what’s desired and necessitated for narrative.