As many Fernets as hours of sleep — yet I feel strangely, biologically improbably good at 6:30am.

I was out last night with my friend J; having one of those corner-of-the-bar conversations that starts nowhere but ends up somewhere important and fulfilling. J, specifically, is my collaborator: he acts in many of my plays. In the play we’re currently working on, he plays a college professor whose student comes to him in office hours with suicidal ideations; incidentally, J’s friend hung himself last week.

We all want to have ‘real’ conversations — at least, I doubt anyone would claim to really desire ‘fake’ conversations — but…