12:44 a.m. I think I'm beginning to experience the feelings of burn-out. Tonight I had to get away from the machine for a while -- I demanded no less than dinner and wine! -- yes, whine. Red wine. Dinner of my choosing.

Both yesterday and today I've taken two naps. Yesterday I actually tried the poor man's vacation: <cough, cough> I think I'm coming down with something. <sniffle> But it was not meant to be. Just fatigue.

I think I just need a short break from the treadmill. Maybe I should have grabbed one of those sunflowers for myself tonight, instead of being very proud to have grabbed this photo. I was very sneaky.

We were just finishing up at the market, gathering up the necessities for tomorrow night's seder feast, and I wandered outside to look at all the pretty, but pretty darn expensive, flowers. I was just going to take your garden-variety shot of the roses in cans in the cooler when I saw this woman reaching, reaching for one perfect sunflower.

So I pretended to take a picture of something just to the left of her ... sneaky, eh? Is this an old photographer's trick? Probably not. You could still get yourself beaten about the head and shoulders with such a maneuver, maybe ... but it worked tonight.

It worked, I'm convinced, because I was acting very preoccupied. As if I knew what I was doing. And what am I doing, exactly? When I truly know, I'll let you know. For now, I'm merely recording. Marking time.

I would take people's pictures all the time if I had more courage or a more powerful zoom. I would write greater truths in this space if I had more courage or less to lose. I would write a new book if I had the fire or the time were right.

I think I'm twisting under the full moon tonight, trying to turn around to see the back of my mind. Is it time for introspection? Is there the slightest, the tiniest little feeling of unease? No.

No? What is it then? Why am I taking my racing pulse so seriously?

It's probably just the song of the spring, the morning marbled skies after the hard rain all night long, the song, the song just beginning. Maybe it's the wind blowing wet blossoms against my cheek; maybe it's the wine.

It's been a very good year.

Maybe it's time.