I dunno. I have finished a copy-edit today (my first!) for a fellow BVC author. I have done several differently difficult stuffs to do with that interface between me and life, including signing and mailing a power of attorney so that someone else can interface on my behalf. I have written a blog-post, also for BVC; and a draft blurb for a book that I have enjoyed almost beyond measure (partly because I am as it were reading it from the inside out; there's been a lot of "I see what you did there!" coupled with a lot of "Oh, I wonder why you did that...?" Every book is a succession of choices, but some of these fascinate me). I have written nothing of my own, nothing that's new. And it's only 7.20, and I still could - and yet, and yet. I want to stop, plzkthx. Chazzie go flump now. Tired. (Which actually I always want to spell tiyyud, the way I kinda say it in my head.) Been awake since five, and I still have to cook the rest of dinner - which isn't hard, just spaghetti and broccoli and garlic mushrooms to go with the rather splendid sauce that's been simmering away since five, the other five, but even so. I want to stop now.