Yesterday, it rained. We had to go to the bank, because I have this habit of allowing checks to pile up. Because I hate the fucking bank. And then I had to meet with Christopher Geissler at the Hay, to retrieve some files, more material for the Subterranean Press juvenilia volume. Few things have ever felt as strange as that did, sitting down in an Ivy League library and having my old crap brought out to me like it's something precious. We talked with Christopher about Necronomicon and the upcoming Hay exhibit of HPL's papers.
Day before yesterday, I wrote 1,048 words, the first half of the fifth section of Agents of Dreamland. Yesterday, I wrote nothing.
I've been enjoying a lot of noir, including such gems as Robert Parrish's Cry Danger (1951) and André De Toth's Pitfall (1948). These are, to me, comfort films.
Yesterday, I read "Complete description of the skull and mandible of the giant mustelid Eomellivora piveteaui Ozansoy, 1965 (Mammalia, Carnivora, Mustelidae), from Batallones (MN10), late Miocene (Madrid, Spain)."