Completely exhausted and mopey last night I drained the last of the 15-year-old single malt, and sat on my floor organizing comic books. (As with my mother, Rule #1: when stressed, organize.) It turns out I am one short box short of a box. Otherwise the experience was like a Matt Brown, This Is Your Comic Reading Life! episode. I think probably the most embarrassing thing I found was the complete run of Star Wars: Republic, which I didn't even like when I was reading it, yet collected every issue; the entire canon of the Emma Frost series (designed for, pitched at, and seemingly written by 12-year-old girls) came a close second.

I was in bed by 9. I vaguely recall waking up at midnight with serious pain in my lower back, but that might have been a dream; I've yet to find proof. I was certainly not on this earth but mingling in the dream-borne paradise the rest of the time; I was Jack Sparrow, becalmed on the Pearl, with not a lot to do besides sit and talk. I think you were there. Then a window opened into the other world, the world after, when we had already survived the apocalypse at great loss of life. Equilibrium, at long last, between us and it. Then I was Faith, soaking wet on the deck behind Gigi's mansion. Dawn was coming (the morning kind, not the giant kind).

Now I'm at the Starbucks for some good honest reading, though I should really be doing some good honest writing. But it's all part of the same back-and-forth, I guess. The headline of the Star this morning is "PM to Cities: Drop Dead." Oh I wish Space Robot had actually said it that way!

Strikewatch: day 5!: Joss Whedon likes Matewan! WTF. That is the movie equivalent of The Stone Angel, which itself is the CanLit equivalent of spinach.

Anyone notice that even the air is shivering? Whatever we're on the edge of, it's gonna be a sight.

Is there any way I can go to Burrito Boyz for lunch?