A pleasant evening . . . a little much red . . . and this morning I slept in three hours. The last week was chaotic, writing-wise, and I wasn’t in good shape hitting the weekend, but now I can’t escape the fact that the Big Year has been broken. I know this seems trivial but it isn’t to me. I’m now writing but also brewing over the dilemma: what does one do with an existential failure of this kind?