and my head filled with half-melted cotton candy lovely for a summer morning, morning being the time between oneish PM and five, or maybe until the sun sets. A list of errands has been marked out, hypothetical accomplishments, minor triumphs in the struggle with inertia. I think about reading On The Road again but then think it will probably just make me all titchy so nevermind but then after that think maybe I should read it anyway for that very reason. I think absolutely nothing for a while. This is irrepressible this laziness, so unrepentant, so unbecoming. There is no room there inside my head for anything but a slow ooze, a loss of meaning.

A couple of minutes away there is a dashing boy waiting for me in a coffee shop with some espresso and a ham & swiss croissant. Maybe some semblance of a muse is there too, maybe the legion of "writers in coffee shops" are on to something. Onwards and upwards then. A grasp towards if not meaning then at least direction.