Committing to these once-daily things and only these once-daily things for the next week. Won't let myself backslide. This is a space about writing and thinking and the collisions that occur between.

The road and the fields below are flooded: a brutal rain last night. Fortunately, the Sanctum is dry – or, rather, I haven't stepped in a pond while working back here this morning; the condition of the other half of the paint shop TBD.

An anger brewing, fighting to get out: unsure if a return to meditation is a way to get through it or if my theory – that the last 20 years of meditating were an avoidance tactic to ignore what needed to be felt and that I'm now playing catchup with iterations of myself lost between breaths – is correct.

This, like the other half of the paint shop, is TBD.

Reticent to release what I've written over the last couple of days: it feels like more of the same but is, at the same time, wholly different. Might be best to accept that this rhythm, this sameness, is where I am creatively in this moment and that it's the end – or maybe the beginning, fuck if I know – of this particular rhythmic book.

That said, having rechristened the former Stories Modulae, I do feel more free to write and to publish whatever springs to mind – even if I've (potentially) climbed so far up my own ass that I can't see the dog scratch on my nose in the half-hearted sun.

I am weary of being weary.