Three things, approaching midnight, a week into September in These titles mean nothing.

I got out of bed to fire up the computer, to look for youtubes. It’s cold enough for socks, an extra sweatshirt and a stocking cap. I left Annie’ Proulx’s Wyoming stories in my bed. They make me feel like me, like here, like places wilder and people both tougher and more vulnerable.

I write in sentences. I skip the work. I end up with nothing. But still the same, it’s in my head, in my heart if I had one, in the time that passes, that chases round the moon poles month to month, piling up the years, leaving scant and stinky evidence, like cats do.

I would hope for more, for better, for a hand to hold, for words to echo back to me. I would hope for that, except I know better. I know there is only this. This night, this early cold night. Has the ice cube season passed? I hate to think so. I want some more clink and cold and wetness at my beckon.