It is nearly five am and the world’s least-favorite day is an hour away from sunlight. I am sitting here in my dimly-lit room wearing a terrible t-shirt and a terrible hat, listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack and wondering when was the last time I closed my eyes and rested my body. (Lord—it’s been almost twenty-four hours.)

There’s Japanese beer in the refrigerator and I’ve watched all three Daniel Craig James Bond flicks in the wrong order in the last four days. Skyfall is pretty good. I think I like that one best.

Tomorrow I will ride my bicycle to Downtown Oakland and get a P.O. box for this fine website. And then I will figure out if my roommate’s mother actually runs an art store in Berkeley (as opposed to me just thinking (or perhaps misremembering) that she does), and when I get there, and if it exists, I will buy a watercolor set. Then I’m going to create some things that I will give to anyone who is interested.

I just knocked over the French press with my foot. I guess I forgot to clean the damn thing out. Hours ago, who knows how many, I was drinking coffee straight from the press, which is not only hardcore strange but also greasier.

Somewhere not far from here there are cars racing down black highways to get to San Francisco for reasons that can’t be altogether good. I’m going to close my window now and shield myself from the noise and the cold autumn breeze that comes with it.