Blobs of doubtful vitality ought to keep their holes shut, I wanted to overhear someone saying, at the pie shop, two weeks ago, but didn't. The previous night I'd watched Savages bring down a church from the inside, then had some confused but lively sleep and taken my howling ears to work and finished early with an imaginary appointment. You ask to finish early and they say do you have an appointment, and you say if I did have an appointment would I also have to have proof of the appointment, and they say no, and you say well then of course I have an appointment, in fact this interrogation is making me late, and the appointment people take an extremely dim view of lateness, whoever they are.
So the pie shop was subdued but for the kitchen-clatter and my howling ears and the damp rustling pies inside heads make. I was having difficulty overhearing something I could steal and put amongst the fragments of the thing that is now finished but then wasn't. It was research and I was hungry. At the door as I was leaving I heard some lively pie-based dialogue I could use, and went home and put it in the thing, and half an hour later deleted it, and spent the next two weeks moving fifty thousand words around until an order that doesn't look like much of an order emerged.
I was making a sandwich in the dark at 6.45 a.m. and wondering if I could get away with not showering. Maybe take a towel to work and monitor the situation through regular discreet whiffing. Of myself and of the nearest other. Trouble is our bathroom's plagued, at home, by thin slugs and draughts and every time you open the door you wonder how far things might've gone, this time, and could we change things by repenting or is it just a matter of waiting. Because the broodings and the slayings haven't worked. And please no repenting because repenting hasn't so far showed itself to be worth the effort. I'm reading a fine-smelling Tolstoy about it and it just goes on forever and he can't even taste his food eventually. Improvement is a slippery slope.