I took the edge off my daily news watch and read a Timothy Montes essay, fielded Young Blood, wrote a little. I reserve the right to slack off: my eye sockets feel like fiery bottomless pits, the planned early beach swim was cancelled just because, and the E string tuning peg broke when I dropped the violin flat on its back because of some stupid phone call. I cannot wait for orchestra practice later. In the meanwhile I read to get happy, and because babysitting this nilagang baka is getting old.
