I feel like a brain-eating centipede entered my head recently. I cannot sleep until exhausted and constantly think the worst. I pace the rooms in my house twitching and shaking, thinking it feels like I want to do something but I don’t, really, since as far as I can tell I’m headed nowhere. I’ve heard a few times that you never really know the direction you’re headed … the journey’s what counts–that sort of deal, and I suppose I agree with that. I have to keep telling myself of the things I’ve accomplished just this year, which I’m really just doing as I write this, and no matter how often anybody says, “Hey, good job,” in my eyes it always looks meager even if I can appreciate the compliment. Anyway, I still intend to leave for the canal on Thursday or so. Perhaps I should chop some more wood to let it dry some when I’m gone.