Sitting at Mud coffee, realizing I've been here for four hours and have accomplished very little, except consuming three cups of coffee and a very nice breakfast quesadilla at 2pm.

People have circulated in and out and in and out, always leaving me in the corner. If you had a time lapse camera, I'm sure it would be an interesting sight to see me remain stationary while dozens of new yorkers flow around and behind me.

I'm pretty sure Thomas Wolfe and I are going to grow old together. Or at least up together. That writer has my damn life printed on 938 pages of this old worn out hardback from 1935.

I'm getting a little looney from lack of human connection. Mud coffee is no esperanto. I've been spoken to a total of no times in all my lounging here. And slowly my things have crept out and spread out over this whole corner. Journal here, glasses there, book here, laptop on the floor, well not now, because I'm typing on it. And my back back wandered somewhere over by the first chair I sat in.

I'm finding that having very little purpose is somewhat excruciated and if I'm to retain any semblance of sanity, I'm going to have to find things to do. Otherwise, there will be pages and pages of this senseless writing about my mundane doings. And there's no Wolfe worthy fury or passion or everlasting earth in that. And if I'm to remain a protege of Wolfe's protagonist I must constantly be weaving through crowds of a million strange faces and remembering them for eternity. There must be fury, and everlasting earth, and gold, and magic cities, and shining lights, choking fury, and cold sweated brows from long nights spent pondering the train.

Well, maybe that happens sometimes in my life. But AHA! I have found a task. Inventory of the church office bathroom and cleaning supplies. Genius.

Check please, I can now live worthily again.