Up at dawn, to catch an early plane. A mystery novel from 1965--it holds my interest, but I count cliches. The plane stops in Las Vegas, and I check my voice mail. I eschew the slots this time ("poison", I think, "poison", just as I imagine that certain fattening foods are "poison", as I see their deleterious effects on me). I land in San Francisco and ride the BART train to the Financial District. Check my e mails, review a document, send an e mail about the document. Four hours in meetings, a rush to a cab, the cabbie flying through the streets to help me make my flight, a boarding pass, a stop in Phoenix, I purchase a fantasy novel in which animals talk, and the long ride home. The BBC recounts the State of the Union, which is imperfect, and I arrive home at 1:30 a.m., too tired to sleep.