As I said before, it felt like fall today. I suppose it can't be helped. It was the usual Saturday routine: chocolate croissant and coffee from the Colombian bakery near my building, consumed in Elmhurst Park where the tiny kids play soccer, afternoon at the galleries in Chelsea, coffee at Café Grumpy to do some writing, burger deluxe from a deli on 8th. Brief thought was given to seeing a movie. Came home instead. My novel draft (if a novel is what it is) is up around 36 legal-pad pages. Already I've found myself writing chapters out of order. Well, with poems I often start somewhere other than the beginning, so why should this kind of writing be different?