paragraph and room.  So what does the writer do but stop, see all around the table – walls, the kids, the quiet.  No rain now, just thoughts.  Keeping most to myself, or not … telling EVERYTHING to the Nurse.

Tried a mew wine recently, and it reminded me of my first wine days.  The first in a tasting room.  No St. Francis, but whatever came after.  Think it was called Alderbrook, a winery that failed horribly in Dry Creek under the “leadership” of the Terlato family.  The wine isn’t the same quality or voice, just reminds me of ME and how eager I was to explore and learn and write about everything.  Not tasting wines or going to those ridiculous events that accomplish fucking nothing, but the freedom.. Writing, notes, looking around and seeing reactions, overhearing conversations.

21:45….. No school for my wee Beats tomorrow.  So no rush to get to bed, but still should start motioning for the rooms respective.

Big day today… will cover in book.  Kids going to Nurse’s after harsh resistance and then being more than happy they did, talking the whole drive over and betting if they’d see Figgy the cat.  He doesn’t like people and hides when anyone comes over.

Tired…. Needing bed myself soon, more than the kids maybe, even.  Listening to inner words and paragraph projections.  Tomorrow, Monday, and it doesn’t land as it does with others.  New Rue, no more morgue, only life… the Sonnet to Science, Annabel Lee… Me, FREE—

The Nurse and I, a story new and one constructing new consciousness, new Composition.  I am invincible I feel at this nook table.

Telling myself to fixate on nothing but the Nurse, my love for her, and the story ahead and already here.  She makes everything “better”…. Me, my writing, life, the day, night, dreams.. all of it.