It’s Monday morning, the first of November. I’ve been awake for several hours now. I’ve managed to have some food, kill some time, and clean some dishes. The sink had been a bit overwhelming, now it’s just slightly obnoxious. My attempt at Nanowrimo seems ill advised. I don’t have a story that I feel like writing. I have bits and pieces, several from years ago, but nothing with a narrative behind it, nothing with a substantial flow. Just bits and pieces, nothing that I feel I could spin into something coherent.