Was reading John Cleveland's antiplatonicks in the bathtub when the lightbulb died, withdrew her beams, yet made no night, but left the sun her curate-light. The book's pages didn't wet, but neither did they dry, infused with steam. Our household stayed up to watch X beat Y, except for me, which is unusual, since I'm the biggest proponent of x in Rancho Peach Stucco. X makes me nervous, it's hard to watch and anyway I needed to sleep. I haven't taken an actual bath in several years, I wonder if the shower changes perceptions -- meditations -- so as to render submersion and its wrinkles inchoate, lumbering. Go X!