Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

Typical me has found a way to beat this system on night two of the experiment ( which COULD expand my mind.)  Did not intend to stay up to 315, but am here.  My tendency is to explain, so I will stop right there.

Before 315 last night I dreamt of shoe designs (work related—but not my designs) Today's nap brought work back (same place as previous dream, but not place in reality.)  Today's dream was not designs' photos as night before—but how to best advertise for the sale—not my job, nor are the designs. Am I so determined to live others' lives?

OK—it's just now 312 by this clock.  Confess I started 4-5 minutes early.  Close enough.

Every day for a month and my page will fill dully.
A car passes the dog Bijou is fascinated as it has been quiet for so long as I sat here working working on my numbers.

How many pages am I to fill.  No limit at this stage of awakeness. Tomorrow the factories will love me and I will hate me, /tge kacj if skeeo me.  Another paper cut? Where the hell is my computer?

And you wonder how this state of mind could pretend to work.  To think.

My mandarin orange liquor and a cigarette make 315 very luxurious.

Real estate or real escape or just don't go there?
Italy?
Dear Addie?

This is what plagues me, but at least I have choices-decided today make that yesterday as it is 315-to take husband Matt to Italy Rome Florence Venice home for his b'day—late October—

Gotta sleep