Turns out they didn’t need me to work at the BBT tonight after all; someone else claimed the shift a couple weeks ago. Instead I enjoyed the sweet taste of free pierogies and rum. And now I’m at home again. 

There is a show tonight, but my brain body and heart all say to stay home. So I think I will do that. Probably not in my best interest to go. Bummer on not working, but at least I’ll get more than 3 hours of sleep tonight. Hopefully.

Time to write. Time to sink into words and backwards sentence structure until I can’t see straight. It is what makes sense.

“Americans have a special horror of giving up control, of letting things happen in their own way without interference. They would like to jump down into their stomachs and digest the food and shovel the shit out.”
-William Burroughs

What a pure definition of agony; this morning, this sitting at a desk doing something or other with numbers–task task task and task. No poems near me, just handwritten and typed procedures, post-its, water cup, jargon.

Needless to say I would rather be writing. So much to get done yet nothing I can do in this eight hour vacuum. The seams between Clark and Superman are tearing. Argh!