Up early, a little to seven. Enjoy these early mornings, while it’s still not a cold day in winter, not officially begun. Have found little difficulty in adjusting from what in reality was but three quarters of an hour prior, forty-five minutes I now find amble use for, commuting. Takes a bigger toll on the girlfriend, I believe. Claims she never gets anything done on the train, which is naturally the only suggestion I have. Up to her to make more of it. ~~~ Reading ‘The Great Gatsby’ on the train. I do enjoy Fitzgerald; much to my liking, he has no time to waste. Even ‘Tender in the Night’, which went some five hundred pages, he was all about action and response, and in this one he proves no worse, in style similar to Keruac, and, for all I remember, Salinger. So it’s frantic and everywhere at once, dodging and weaving and making haste securing a head start, I find it amazing one might conquer four-five lines of introduction and feels in possession of that same number of pages of personal details en ligne. Have yet to form an official impression, yet the one lingering is a favorable one, certainly. ~~~ Soon enough a weekend I think I’ll sleep my way into and out of. A trifle weary from what I can’t decipher, nor have the energy to attempt my hand at. Thursday on the morrow. Am hoping for a quiet day.