Paying my rent to Leonard Cohen, in dollars and lint.

He speaks of the Tower of Song, the God of Song. I feel his obsession through the plinking piano and tick of the drums. Steady, steady, a river forever flowing to the ocean.

I think it's time to stop working overtime. 8 hours a day, leave at 2:30, pick up the nephews, do my walking and finish in time to visit my mom. That would be good.

On the plus side, I've become much better at Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare multiplayer. Team Deathmatch is all I really play. I was doing pretty poorly before, and it turns out my sensitivity was set way too high. Now I even come in first place a few times a day.

Sleeping and dreaming have become separate things. As if I save all my dreaming for the weekends. Might be for the best. The lingering feelings and impossible puzzles can take up a lot of my processing power. Where I can feel my brain working but I'm not sure what it's working on. Like a noisy upstairs neighbor.

I need the mental equivalent of a broom to knock against the ceiling.