Filed. Ten shelves and half a table bared, the list now comprising a single tight electric page.

To let myself free I step out into the night. To let myself loose, I watch the stories penned by Stirling Silliphant, set down on film about the time I was born. There are eight million stories, in the naked city. One of them has a Diane Ladd so young I didn’t recognize her until the credits.

In the morning it will be Sunday.

There are four subheadings on the list. One is about making money. Two is about allocating it. Three is about the systems of the machine for living in the minor digital sense. And the last is the point. To stop worrying about money and systems, and simply to create.

I am on the right side of the November glass and my shoulder in unknotted.