Goodnight.

Last night, Agreeable Dave and I had an agreeable time; this morning was less agreeable and this afternoon was spent on the living room rug, asleep. Which was agreeable because it leaves me alert now to do this and, maybe later, that.

And despite being unable (hampered as I am by stupidity) to keep reasonable hours, I work. As I will tomorrow and the next day and for every foreseeable day of the next fifty or so years. And once I realized that life doesn't get much better, it seemed much better than it had before. Even in the midst of the constant dissolution of human relations and the realization that satisfaction is unwon and unwinnable, even in the tall grass of confusion and the liquid haze of early morning, none of this is so bad that needs to be flushed, razed, or burned. None of this is as bad as that.

And in an apartment that resembles a stage set for some kind of urban domestic bliss--though currently strewn with Agreeable empties and sadly lacking my better third and any kind of non-rice food--I can feel somewhat sweaty and somewhat pleased to have a cold cocktail and a good book and the promise of peace when Jessica comes home tomorrow. Because I will take out the garbage.

I am obliged now, to go and read and to feel urbane in a way you can only buy.

Goodnight.