I've been listening to a lot of slow jammy jazzy music lately. Tea Leaf Green, Steely Dan, Miles Davis, Erik Truffaz, also Corinne Bailley Rae because her voice is one of the best things you can wake up to on a winter morning. For songs that are so mournful in general the music as a whole never fails at achieving all the non-paranoia and un-nerviness that I want, so there are quilts and blankets and there is the music and there is a happy little feverish blob somewhere in the middle trying to read Greek tragedy. Sometimes I'm inordinately proud of how nerdy I can be because it's all I have till the non-productivity kicks in. I'm fine this year, six days and I can tell I'm fine and that I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be so darn fine that there will be nothing but nauseating finery and fineness all around.

I could do with a copy of On The Road to call my own but I need to watch fussday fussshow Sherlock Holmes this Friday, hence I am a tangle of wool. Come next week I shall jobhunt to the point of slobbering over not nice people, three times over I swear it.