Writing is this sort of workaholic disease. You just work all the time. You go home from work, and you go to work from home. You work all the time. I blame the economy. There is no way for most of us to be fulfilled in our careers. May I take your order please, by the way? What service can I provide for you, and how much abuse must I take in the name of customer service? What are all the rules I must obey at work even though I do not understand them? Work all the time and find fulfillment. Also, remember, there is only one shot at retirement, so work for that, too. I am working. I am working all the time. Read a book in the mean time, if you can. Also, plant something. I’m going to write a book someday about how we always live so close to our maps and GPS signals that if we ever bothered to wander off the habitable, manicured, prepared trails, we’d find something that wants us to stay where we are, and that thing, in real life, is just nature. Work harder, so you don’t have time to think about nature, and how nature is a messy creep that wants to fill you up and eat you. Also, if you have a neat and tidy yard, you aren’t winning against nature, because nature is not supposed to be neat and tidy. Also, try not to start every paragraph with the same connecting phrase because it is a gimmick and gimmicks are terrible in prose. Also, if you can make a buck with your gimmick, that’s good, because retirement and working all the time. Sleep will come for me soon enough. Push on and work, into the late hours. Push on until the nonsense of restless mental energy becomes a kind of honesty that glows on the page straight through. Also, anything that is written can be revised. Everything that is written must be revised before it is shared with others. Just write. Get to work. I am working all the time. I won’t be able to keep this up forever, but for now, I think it’s okay. I live life in a state of Also, jumping from one idea to another.