Well, there's no receipt in my pocket for a cheap motel, but it's dark outside, been raining off an on all day, my shoes are across the room, untied. Dishes in the sink, baby, and I'm writing. Which means I'm going to waltz across the room (mechanical repetition of box step -- classy) and do those dishes and then I'm going to sit up with Pynchon's V. a while yet, occasionally frowning at my sentences as they read on screen ("Hey baby, why don't you come up to my place and we'll listen to some smooth music on the stereo..."), fuss with them. I am shocked at how many boozey puns emerged naturally from the text as I wrote it. Maybe detectives are good for that ("Hey, I don't need you, baby. See, it's a well known fact -- I'm four sheets to the wind. I'm glad you're gone. Glad you're gone and I'm all alone, glad you're gone and I'd wish you'd come home..."), and maybe this story won't turn out so bad. Maybe.