Dude Swiftie.

I'm going to have to go on and say this is a lot of rain. Half an inch so far easy, and probably more. We can hear it on the air vents for the kitchen exhaust. It's puddling back in the yard in the usual spots, and some of the less-usual. The Toad slept past eight. He and the dog: rainy day creatures. He's about to head down for a nap. The dog has already quit us. I may be about to, as well. It is the kind of day that makes you want to think about chili for later, or lasagna, or something that cooks a while without your need to keep an eye on it. Something that rewards a lazy sit-down with something to sip on. But for now? For now all I can work toward is one more cup of coffee, and the prospect of of this prospective nap. I have sent the novel to 10003. And this is not even the big deal. This is just the dude who might then send it to the dude. If he thinks the dude will like it. If he likes it. I mean, the dude is still a big dude. He's the original dude. Still. And still, I cannot sleep, cannot eat, cannot think straight, am struggling with simple mathematical functions. I cannot do much at all except for look up NOAA nautical charts (the novel has water in it/is taking on water) and stare at the wee numbers and signs and signals and hope for some kind of explanation to bubble up. To wash ashore. He said, tidally. He felt lost at sea. For whom is the funhouse fun? Perhaps for lovers. For Ambrose it is a place of fear and confusion.