Tomorrow shall see the old, forlorn back of Nick’s slightly balding heading and dispirited, stooped shoulders as he lumbers into the metaphoric sunset of our acquaintance.

M. and Nick are supposed to meet up tomorrow so we can collect our court winnings. I might go, but I’m afraid of one last nasty encounter. I don’t know. I’m torn between a stories end and the desire to avoid all lunatic fuckwads in a 100 mile radius.

What to do, what to do?