I worked late. The bus didn’t come until 7:30. I just got home and I need to maintain the great American blog, write the great anti-American novel, compose some cabaret acts for Tingle Tangle, do my laundry, read everything Josef Roth wrote (“Das bin ich wirklich - böse, besoffen, aber gescheit” – “That’s how I am, really, -- Nasty, Drunk and Clever”), fill the Sci Fi gap in my education with Gibson, I really don’t know enough about the Grand Guignol either, I have to assure my parents that I’m still alive, I need to figure out why everyone is so excited about that Outkast album, I have to watch “Funny Face” and eat chocolate, and then there’s taxes, I owe 50 of my best friends emails and letters and phone calls, I’ve forgotten all of my tarot card reading skills, I should probably eat dinner eventually, I need to hurry up and relax and maybe take some cough syrup and zone out, I still haven’t finished Journey to the End of the Night, I need to do my physical therapy exercises, my mother’s birthday is coming up, Maggie needs quality time…how am I going to do all of this? Why is there never enough time? When is it ok to stare out of the window and think about last night and “The Strange Love of Martha Ivers”?