A most lurid passage from my evening pages:
"Even as the young man sat twaddling at the dinner table looking at his phone (no rings), at his vegetable soup (oil rings), at the computer screen and a nebulous array of Vampire Weekend promotional material (mostly gay-related), our young man could not dispel a certain heat—a humidity, maybe, that had settled in him earlier that morning while he debated on whether to get out of bed at 8:30 or 9:45. (He got out of bed at 8:35, groaning, failing to think up an erotic scenario sufficient to wick himself back to sleep.) That afternoon he’d driven about the snowed-over back-roads of the county-over, listening to somber music newly from Iceland—appropriate, actually. And now, at the dinner table, his thoughts took on the same greasy freeze as his skin: he had yet to do his taxes, fill out his FAFSA, or run a single load of laundry. He had one white t-shirt left and all his jeans smelled of maple syrup and coffee. His underwear was anywhere but the hamper. He decided to get up and continue with Thursday. If he must."