"You're always an inch away from being a good man."
I don't think I even got five hours sleep last night, and I woke confused and angry. Now I have to try and set all that aside and work. I'm not awake, and the sky is much too blue. I can see it through the limbs and leaves outside my office window. Another two or three weeks, at most, and those leaves will be gone, and there will be no green remaining to protect me from the hungry, empty-bellied Rhode Island sky. The worst of it, of green autumn and of winter and of cold spring, is not the chill. The worst of it is the sky. Currently, it's 80˚F in Providence.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,442 words on "Animals Pull the Night Around Their Shoulders." And the mail brought my contributor's copy of Black Wings V: New Tales of Lovecraftian Horror, edited by S.T, Joshi, which reprints "Far From Any Shore."
Last night, I watched Stuart Rosenberg's The Pope of Greenwich Village (1984). It's sort of inexplicable that I'd never seen it.