I have these hurricanes of energy, but they are difficult to sustain. It is something I need to become far better at. It is hard to do anything at all--the most basic life tasks--given the state I am in, living so long without hope or any of the basic things that humans need, even I. That will sound strange, given how someone else would look at all that I do. But it comes with these hurricane bursts. Composition is also such a heaving up of everything I know and feel, what I understand about the world and people, that I am exhausted after the completion of a work, or the execution of a significant portion of one, when I then have so many other things to write. This morning, here before seven, I completed a great story called "Excelsior." It's technically perfect. Formally perfect. I was going to say it is one of my finest works, but I am not comfortable saying that--I think it's misleading, in that I do not believe I have works better than my other works. A case could be made for any and all. Or pretty close to it. I should say, "It is one of my works I feel best about." Which is true. But now I have to do a million more things. I cannot be spent. I need to find a way to go from hurricane to hurricane, losing no energy.