I'm having a fine night. But I'm irritated with myself. I should be writing. I want to be writing. But I'm chilling in front of fire with libations. Totally relaxed. Yet on Substack and considering composing my next post and planning next. And that makes me mad. Writing here is a wasted timesink. Writing here is a DELUSION - it makes me think I've written today when I ABSOLUTELY HAVE NOT.