Deadlines begin to, if not exactly loom, then at least to stand nearby and look menacing. I spend a futile evening playing with African guitar tunings whose simple alterations to standard serve only to prove that I need to play more if I'm going to pull off this massive project in September.
Later that night, I lie in bed complaining to Katie until I catch myself and apologize, saying, "I guess I'm not really at my best right now, am I?"
She tousles my hair and smiles, replying, "I'm tired of seeing you at your best."
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