And ‘tis, apparently, the season (like Christmas, it seems to arrive earlier with each year): second weekend in a row that as-yet-unidentified nearby dickshits have been setting them off after +/- 2100. Last night’s cacaphony motivated the neighbors’ dog to run away in fear; flashlights and calls into the dark abounded. No word as of this writing as to whether or not he’s returned home. Fuck fireworks.
Mental cacophony of waking in the process of an ebb, until it isn’t. But at least I’ve figured out the way forward, the next steps: pretty much the same as the old steps. Writewritewrite.
On titling: These are, as they have always been, The Informalities: each will, therefore, get its own title, even though I am shit at titles. Perhaps I will become less shit in the practice. Wouldn’t it be nice.
P.S. Fuck fireworks.
