Last night I fell asleep sometime between six and seven. I don’t know how many days it’s been—maybe a week, maybe more—but it feels like I’ve been working, procrastinating, and taking care of the baby all the time, every day, for a fairly good while now. Last Thursday I realized rather abruptly that I had worked for twelve straight hours, either teaching college students, working their grades into a spreadsheet, or tutoring younger students. I haven’t been able to dedicate myself to writing or reading in at least a week, and now I feel as if I can’t get back into that creative world until this fever pitch of machine labor comes to an end. I don’t know when this is going to happen. We’re going on vacation in America in two weeks or so, but we’re anticipating that the trip itself, the flight over the Pacific with a 13 month-old child, will be the most difficult thing my wife and I have ever done—rivaling the day he was born.