The leaves have fallen to the gutters except the ones still clinging to October. November knows no mercy.

I am playing with fire again. Juggling cheques and rent. All games that I have grown to old for except I am not worried like before. Now I know that somehow all will work or not.

The strikers are being played by stage players this time, waving their little signs with phrases of discontentment; no doubt written by the writers waiting patently to go somewhere other than picket lines…

C’mon, for the love of Christ, get this thing settled! I’ve sold everything I can sell, and I’m watching reruns of Game of Thrones.