Sunday suds.

I'm feeding the cat wet food in the morning while Linda is gone.  I'm trying to do it exactly like my wife does -- Panga likes it in a kind of warm soup.  I try really hard.  Something I'm doing isn't right.

She looks at me like I'm trying to poison her. 

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I really am surprised I haven't gone back to Reddit since that chainsaw massacre was sprung on me.

I really am creeped out by that.  Enough to avoid a site I used to like.

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I'm really charged up to start the last chapters today and I wasn't yesterday.

This metaphorical well that I measure on my creativity, has an almost physical weight.  As if it is a real measure, not a metaphorical one.  Hard to explain.

Weird.

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I was looking for some 'Cast out the Demons' prayers for Death of an Immortal.  The Catholic Church has some AWESOME ones.  I could pepper the book with them. Vampirs, be gone!  To me, these are as much fantasy as anything I could write, a thousand years of liturgical weight.

Martha asked if I was going to do them in Latin.

They are already so weird as to be in a foreign language.