My battered moleskine, still unnamed, dark and brooding, is fixed, and lives on. Pages of semi-narrative and drowning thoughts, a heathen pragmatism applied to our secret lives, and one day to remember and forget. I look forward to a bit of cinematic heaven; but am not sure. Trusty Benigni, Aardman, or Nolan, all delicious and delectable? Cohen, who is not here yet, or Gore? Then, a blistering essay to craft, a show-and-tell, and a flourish to savour. Daydreams to point the way to tomorrow. Days and days like this, living on borrowed time, only moments before descending back into the maelstrom (and perhaps one day to never return). Almost more than I can bear, this mind of mine, waking up, finally, finally. Public discourse is almost tragic as it literally falls apart, and to roam daily across the disciplines, to be able to live among those whose lives might be made or unmade through such unseen, unknowable machinations as these, to have each moment bursting with sweetness, an incomplete beauty, to look forward to possible tomorrows instead of fading yesterdays, to perhaps one day find a tongue to use, as all those who have come and gone had, or could have had, and one day to remember them all.