I don’t know what it is about wine that makes me spill it so god damn much.

It’s constant at night, right over my keyboard, inevitably right when I’ve just thought up some genius (you’ll never know).

I’ve finally got some solid photos of Wesley, the cat. Thank god. I think that says more about me and my ability as a photographer, than it does about Wesley, who I did used to blame. He always moves. He sees you and can’t help but get up and grab some of the love in your heart he most definitely will receive. But film is a fickle thing. So there’s that.

There’s this fucking ladder I’ve ordered apparently for no other reason than to give me a stroke, is on backorder again, second time. I ordered it back in September, and it’s about to be mid-November now. It’ll be too cold by the time I get it to give a fat flying fuck about using it for anything until April. No matter.

There isn’t enough time in the day to drink as much wine as I want to. I started late, but I think that’s the key of things. Writing comes out when it’s late, and if I start early I’m likely to sleep later, or become a total slosh, which I can write magic on too, no doubt. But there’s a special magic about that slow wine go you get to when it gets into the early hours.

More to come.