phew

I made it to 32.

My memory of last night's dreams has momentarily lapsed, should I recall them I'll share.

Last night was another poetry reading and workshop. Me and one of the members of that workshop are thinking out loud about starting another workshop, to compliment the monthly one, but also to instigate more writing. We'd like to meet much more often, if not once a week, then biweekly.
I've been sending out work to literary journals and magazines. I keep in mind Bukowski, as I await responses:

hell is a closed door
even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
truly stupid
and I just went on and wrote more and
more.