These are punishing days, and would be apart from the hell and torture component. Just to write this much, create this much, invent this much. 8000 words were written over the weekend. 4000 were written last Friday. Worked on a short story today and wrote the whole of a first chapter of a film book, which was 3400 words. I can't even think. Well, I can. That never diminishes. But this is exhausting. And it's nothing that any other writer has any clue about. It'd take the people in publishing a year to just type this much, let alone invent, and have it be perfect and matchless, and cover the range it does. I also acquired every circulating unreleased concert and studio recording from Pink Floyd in 1967, 1968, and 1969. I won't even be able to listen to any of it, organize all of it, until I am back in Rockport and also have a house on Cape Cod. Convert hundreds of thousands of files flac to mp3. It's part of this huge music project I'm trying to do, and acquire every unreleased tape by this huge list of bands, and have it all available to pull up whenever I want. Anyway. I must stand up again, shake out my head. It's half past two in the afternoon and I've been sitting at this desk since six this morning.