Still wrecked from yesterday’s road trek-sail — miles and madness, fucking 101 Peninsula traffic, gas station Diet Coke, and some talk radio chatterbox screaming about the end of traditional advertising.

Home now. Working. Or performing the ritual theater of IT.  My IT.
Calendar’s mercifully thin — a couple things to swat at later.

How long was I in that damn car?  Two and a half hours?  Felt like a decade in traffic therapy, me and my thoughts doing laps around sanity.

Don’t expect much from this writer today. The tank’s dry, the brain’s in an altitude stall.
Will I run?
Maybe. Could be fun. A rain run.
A baptism for scattered writers.  The neighbors will think I’ve lost it — and they’ll be right, but it’ll be beautiful.

Yesterday’s talk still buzzing around like a housefly in my thought map.
The reaction — a few raised eyebrows, a few nods, a few messages this morning that hit like soft encouragement grenades.
They told me exactly what I needed to know: where to go next, what to chase, what to burn down.

SalesHeightsYou.
Yeah — that’s the new project, rebranded mid me-rewrite.
Changed the name, stripped the fear, tossed the self-doubt into traffic.
No more waiting.
No more rehearsing the excuse before the attempt.

I’ve decided — and it’s shocking.
Even to me.
Especially to me.
But damn, it feels like movement.  A movement.

MY.Movement.