18h. The office is slowly emtpying.
I'm up to eight projects now, Mr. Pyke, am I doing you proud?
I don't remember waking up and realizing that I'm not the mad scientist cackling in the corner anymore.
I remember the word "management" flashing a fleeting red light in my consciousness before finding myself pinstriped and nailed to the wall.
The mad scientist dream, that was the dream of my childhood, twelve years old and dreaming of cobweb encrusted ceilings, while a hundred identical ballerinas pranced through the sixth grade as I hid from them and their mothers behind the third bookshelf in the school library until it was dark enough to leave.
But I don't think it's over. I don't think that my heart is prepared to die.
I think, however, that my heart is prepared to marche over to Edie and tell him that he should go home to his beautiful italian wife and ask me for the rest of this whitepaper on Monday.
Because even my graphed lines are started to look crooked.
And tonight I have time to play with candles and vacuum some, read some more of the book of 1920s poetry that I picked up from a streetcorner stand for 10ff, and fall asleep to the scent of cooked apples and incense.
Saturday it will be four girls giggling our way up montmartres and then polishing off fine wine chez moi, and Sunday at dawn I'll be off to fetch Mr. Pyke from the a�roport.
He gets a swift nap and then is coming rollerblading with us, alors il a l'int�ret de bien dormir dans l'avion...