Past work for a spell, or, rather, a full working day. Overtime put in. Enough to do. Scanned several thousand pages of text, all the whilst producing one of my own, the beginning of some novella about a girl and her gunglasses. Most effort put into the last-mentioned activity. No bus at this late hour, so rode the apostlenes(?) horses home. ~~~ It’s when she has tired from running and jumping about and there’re still, in her math, miles and miles to go before we’re home, that she stops in her tracks and turns to me and, eyes wide open and she looks as one whose world would come to and end if I turned her down, reaches up and utters the word ‘carry’. And I, I cannot, won’t ever, resist the urge to honor her request. My love for her is not to be measured in certain moments of joy or celebration, it’s too equally spred out between the seconds I spend with her; but will state as simple fact how I cannot help but react very strongly to this tiny cry for physical support of her weary frame, and feel my love for her equally strongly. ~~~ Tomorrow Sunday. Plan to do … nothing. Nothing at all but tend that other regular job, of babysitting my baby-girl. Am hoping for a quiet day.