Spent the last three mornings doing interviews for the Bacardi book, and starting a note here at 2pm just feels wrong. I know next to nobody at my current location, and have spent the last several days without human contact beyond bartenders and the people who bring me food. Notebook almost filled with spidery scrawl of ideas scratched down in television light. Today’s lunch meeting will be the first actual conversation I’ve had in almost a week. Website connection has dropped out on me twice in the last two minutes. Coffee under ruthless sunlight. Those days where your own mind is a desert island, and you’re just wandering around inside it, looking for flotsam and jetsam to fashion tools out of. Perhaps I will see another human before I get to the point where I’m daubing faces on room service water bottles and giving them names.