Afternoon Light.

Again TLK rides the avenging angel of the green pickup to my rescue, and the windows are in. Warmest it was all day is how it was this morning, and things just fell off from there. Cold and clear. Threat of snow late week. But the windows are in, frozen fingers be damned, and we see right out there on the edge of the horizon, just out there past where the sextant can say what is and what isn't, the prospect of all of this—well, Phase One, anyway, which is: tear the building to shreds, and then paste it back towards usable—coming to some kind of Januaried close, which is to say: has anyone ever seen a sentence do what this one is doing? And: might we finally, sometime soon, move back towards the idea of sentence, and away from the idea of inch-and-five-eighths exterior-rated screws? I love the work. Don't get me wrong. But I'm ready, now, again, to work—to sit at the desk, to see what there might be in that halfassed half of a new book. Enough—oh, wait for it, friends and fans of puns—screwing around.