He became distracted from his architectural plans, wasting time with other things that became the House that Jack Built.  I keep returning to that supremely unpleasant movie since it captures a delusion we can maintain while alone, that we are better than everyone else, that we're superior, simply by not putting ourselves under their scrutiny.  It's only at the end that we confront the grand project we've been working on all our lives, that it's a measly pathetic little thing, hardly begun. 
I take breaks to eat yogurt and grapes.  I sit here at the all-purpose dining room table, defeated because I can't find the simple music notebook I'd left on the piano, resting upon a prior notebook, because it's part of the grander Augusteia project. 
The end, no more yogurt and grapes in the bowl.
We're ready to sleep. 

And this is the extent of my thoughts for now, a day at the office followed by a day home, both nights consisting of music rehearsals for a CLE show, this one about the business of Marijuana in a country where States can legalize while the Federal Government can maintain it as contraband.  It was never worse than alcohol, because alcohol is pretty bad for the brain.  How do people manage to live with it and grow old with a sharp mind?

And what point can I make to produce readability?  Will I ever be of a mind to express myself?  Why do I think the crafted way is the better way?  Why can't freestyle be comprehensible, be worth reading.  Oops mosquito.