I want to call requests through heating vents

and do nothing right now, or ever again, other than listen to The Weakerthans, drink hotwhiskeycider, and watch the snow.

The reality: in five days I will be writing a novel.
The reality: in thirty-five days I will have written a novel.

What I will need:

1. ideas
2. computer
3. time
4. courage
5. hotwhiskeycider
6. sweaters
7. your unconditional love and support

Tomorrow morning Jordan and I will drive Denver-Aurora-Denver-Aurora-Denver and practice being on the road; now, outside, a man singing blues to himself walking the street in snow old slush Pearl behind Colfax behind Tom's Diner.

(Next: you're a genius all the time)