Little ambient lonely. I want to fiercely disconnect. Savor the solitude. Get into my head more, get something done. Except the notknowing, it keeps me from experiencing, and I don't get the trajectory of lives right in my own head. Because of course I can't write about my own. Because of course the whole thing is stagnant.

I'm trying to figure out how important it is to work on Norah's story, because it relates a lot more I think to the timbre of where we are today, and it's more possibly important to what needs to be said, if someone like me could ever have the capacity to say what needs to be said.

And the nightmares of the windmills. Those violent fingers slicing torso in half, the black-eyed lidless children wailing for the unseen future. Is that really relevant? Am I fooling myself into thinking a selfish, spoiled brat like me can write anything except the stories of selfish, spoiled brats?

Either way, I need to finish "river island" and more on to the turbines. They're quite impressive to look at, those turbines.