Still keyed up from the work jag and the phone call from the young man at
the new museum. Murphy is restless too, kneading the pillow beside my
head and purring loudly. Might as well turn the light on and
write.
Thinking about Luke. Maybe it is the moon. The moon and the excitment.
A male painter -- you'd know his name if I wrote it -- told me he never had
sex when he was working. "Takes the edge off," he said.