Work harder tomorrow. Winding it down for now. Just got home, twenty of eight. Wrote a 2700 word jazz piece today, wrote three entries for this journal--not counting this one; ran 3000 stairs, walked six miles, listened to Green Day's new album of BBC sessions and the Dead's Live/Dead, went to a three hour concert, worked on the novel in my head. This is the Lenox Hotel on Boylston Street, where Ring Lardner stayed--and where he wrote letters that were later collected in a book--when he covered the Chicago White Sox in the 1910s. The C-Dawg is not normally out this late. I felt like Mitchum in a noir. As I went to Trader Joe's to get pomegranate juice for my blood pressure so I can remain strong to beat the bigots of publishing.