It’s a little past nine o’clock. I’ll be asleep in less that an hour. Right before turning off the light, I will have read another twenty or so depressing, yet beautiful pages of As I Lay Dying. It will give me nightmares. (Faulkner’s worth it though.) I’ll be up well before five.

With the moon.

Tomorrow morning I’ll not fritter away the peaceful space of the dark morning hours clicking and scrolling.

Instead, I’ll write as I work my way through a pot of coffee.

I’m 27,577 words into Accidental Gravitas, a title I liked a couple weeks ago and not so much anymore.

If Philip Roth hadn’t don’t it already with Portnoy, I might think to call it Mitch’s Complaint; he is somewhat curmudgeonly and not happy with what life’s throwing in his direction.

Not having the right title sort of like having a deep splinter. You know it’s not going to kill you, but you’d like to have it otherwise. Perhaps by 30K words I’ll have enough written to find the right couple of words to capture its essence.

I’m off to hear from Cora and Darl . . . They’d wish you good night were they not busy preparing for the end.