I tucked Tony in to bed and began to read a book. Neither of these are really important moments, but taken together they help me feel like I am a modest success.

I have been sequestered for many many hours in this apartment, indulging in modernist classics and mild html-codes. My eyes are becoming blurry and my head would like a late-night spirit. There is still plenty of time for me to continue “working” before I sleep, but this suddenly seems rather distasteful. The ceiling fan is humming silently.

Beginning in college I always felt overcome when I read, and I would begin to talk to myself in reminiscent rhythms of the most recent author’s words. Images would/do find themselves lodged and begging to be released. But they are not my own. And yet, after I stifle them a bit they eventually surface in my own idiosyncratic fashion. This is why I keep reading.