Making some pasta, hopefully it'll help. Too cold out for P, poor guy.

Whatever's wrong with me's hard to shake, useless blob of goo, sick of it. Taking tomorrow off, thinking about picking up a copy of the new Pynchon book, maybe getting a haircut, more likely won't do much of anything. Maybe just brood stupidly, sleep furiously, whatever.

The end is near.

Wonder if that guy who screams on the corner across the street from City Lights is still at it, an inspiration.