The sun keeps rising earlier, as will happen in the days and weeks leading up to the summer solstice. With it, I keep rising earlier. I'm off caffeine at the moment, which makes the days feel strange. It's like I'm walking through a fog that never lifts.
We spent time at the library yesterday, writing. In a humorous coincidence, I am writing a scene that takes place at a library. So I studied the architecture, the people, and so forth.
One good thing about writing in a library is that if you need a prompt, it's easy to walk over to one of the stacks, open a book, and steal a line. I chose something from a Billy Collins poem. It had to do with a gravel road, I forget exactly what.
Today's plan is exciting. Revise an article, work on a few scenes for the novel, transcribe an interview, deal with the electrician, walk the dog, go out for a walk, watch a ballgame, read a book or two. It's a quiet existence, which suits me well.
I mentioned the caffeine, right? I forget because of the whole fog thing. My mind refuses to clear, everything is fuzzy. It's a strange sensation.
Next week I am meeting friends I haven't seen in too long. It will be good to catch up with them. The next day I'm going to a concert.
These sentences suck. I'm far less interesting without coffee. Or do I flatter myself by believing that I was far more interesting with coffee? Sunny outside, foggy inside.
I was looking at Clayton Kershaw's stats this morning. They make no sense, in the way that this entire attempt at narrative makes no sense. Everything is disconnected and hardly seems real. Maybe that's a problem; then again, maybe it's okay.