There was sun this morning, but even as quickly as I type this, the clouds are moving in again. We'll have rain this evening. I feel beaten down. I feel as if I don't have a single chill and cloudy-day's worth of strength left in me, and yet we are only at the threshold of New England's interminable six or seven or eight month cold. Currently, it's 48˚F.

I did write yesterday. I did 1,115 words. But I suspect it's all junk that has to be tossed out today.

I'm almost halfway through Moby-Dick. I love every word of this novel.

Last night, more TV. I call it that, though, these days, we most often watch "TV" on my MacBook. My I will always call it TV, because TV is a thing that belonged to a fairer and more hopeful past. But, yes, last night more TV: All Things Must Pass: The Rise and Fall of Tower Records (2015), and then the first half of Rolling Stone: Stories From the Edge, and then two more episodes of White Famous.

Fuck you, November, but, all the same, shield me from December.

Later,
Aunt Beast




1:12 a.m. (this morning)