There's a terrible night, after an uneasy evening of ruminating on the sting of poverty and the mockery of the rich, the not even rich, the middle class, the working class who actually worked, unlike me, and then a real storm, with the fear of a ruined roof, more damage to the wood, the dripping into buckets, and nightmares, in and out of sleep, of floods and loss and shame, knowing in the waking hours between the sleeps that the next day will be broken, tired and performing badly, falling into bad habits, making it all worse.

But then I wake up and nothing is broken, I perform well, and the misery gives up to mystery and then the sun starts to set and I'm outside with a beer, some music, my favorite pen, and a bunch of index cards, and I'm breathing deeply, breathing well, as the planet turns and my town rolls away from the sun in a spectacular show, and I forget it all and tap into something sacred yet literally quotidian.

I'm alive, and the real magic, now as ever, takes place inside my head. There's nothing to me beyond me. My world is my world, it lives and dies with me.

I drink more beer, write on the cards, enjoy the hunger and the fire.

Today has been another exceptional day for an insignificant man who lives on the edge of collapse.