Drinking room temperature wine straight out of the bottle.
finishing the latest Thomas Pynchon, wondering if he's made his narratives more linear out of choice or pressure from his publisher.
Missing the next Neil Gaiman and Takedown Twenty.
I read such random shit and drink too much.
I write things I don't want to repeat.
Tomorrow I will live the same life I've always lived.
Tonight I'll wallow in indecision and wine.
Hoping for another chance.
Making excuses for a day I'll never see.
Next week.
I'll finally finish a story.
I'll remember the time my mom brought me to dinner at Peete Seeger's house.
I'll finally figure out how to separate reality from my (day) dreams.
I'll finally know the right things to say.
I'll remember how to succeed.
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