I worked some crossword puzzles, ate some toast. She did some Gameboy, some work, I played a game that involved shattering fishtanks and igniting hot-air balloons — gears, pulleys, wheels of cheese. I went to the bookstore and bought nothing, more to be outside, flawless, sunny, cool, quiet, ocean and trees still unstuck in time, autumn coming soon and I’m a complete sucker for it, my formative years being in weatherless CA, the corn husks, the cinnamon, the skies moving further and further away, sharpening, the leaves, the pumpkins, the foreboding, I’ll take the hoariest fall cliches. Someone said they were giving away bottles of Sobe at the used record store, someone said man, I could go for that. The book jackets were like jeweled watchworks. The rest of the day spent together watching one episode of Twin Peaks after another, the house growing more indistinct. I eat a fucking lobster and I can’t take it anymore, no more lobster ever again, even though they pretty much come through the tap here in Maine. I talk a little about David Lynch, she plays the sheet game with the cat, I read a magazine in bed (Did you read magazines in bed when you were a boy? she asked me last night, and I said Yes, wondering if that meant something), and it tells me about upcoming movies and television programs, Arnold Schwarzenegger fighting terrorists who blew up a building that his family was in, Kiefer Sutherland uncovering an assassination plot, and the magazine, a week old, the magazine is so quaint, so endearing in its datedness, and I can feel the calm bubble of Sunday quivering, and exhaustion hits, the exhaustion of keeping things at bay, at finding distraction, and all it would take is one direct look, one unfiltered thought but please I don’t want it to end, I’m staying up and writing this and keeping busy and I don’t want it to pop yet.