Yesterday I managed to get back to work of "Dead Letter Office," but I only eeked out a measly 759 words. I did not find THE END. I ought to have been done with the piece days ago. People who do not depend on their writing as the sole means of support for two people are fond of saying things like, "You can't rush art. Take your time." And here we have the vast gulf between the romance of the would-be working author and the harsh facts of the actual working author. It would be wonderful if I had a month to work on this piece. I don't.
Yesterday, I read "Jaw mechanics and evolutionary paleoecology of the megaherbivorous dinosaurs from the Dinosaur Park Formation (Upper Campanian) of Alberta, Canada."
Cloudy today, and currently it's 73˚F here in Providence. Kathryn put a pork roast in the crock pot this morning, with an onion and an apple, and we're going to have corn on the cob, baked beans, and apple pie. I'm extra homesick today. It inevitably happens on the Fourth.
A lot of GW2 last night, me and Spooky out in Silverwastes. And one RP scene in The Secret World. I took a break from RP just before my birthday, and I went back on July 1. I was missing India Shore. Really, The Secret World is a sad mess of a game, but no other MMO can offer an RP world even half as interesting. So, that's where I go. GW2 is for gaming; The Secret World is for role play.
Later, I watched Interstellar for the fourth time.