Night one of a hectic workweek is over. By the time I go to bed, I should have some new Unheimlich material posted- rough stuff, and nowhere as eloquent as the stuff I put down on paper with a pen* last week, but it's a start.

I came home to find four bottles of wine in my kitchen. Four large bottles, two of California Chardonnay, two of Italian red table. There was also some kind of cheese tray in the fridge, resting on a shelf above the Chardonnay. I suspect that Tracey brought them over, and that both wine and cheese were remnants of a party; I also suspect that neither she nor my brother will take umbrage at me having a couple-three glasses, though I will consult my brother before emptying any particular bottle.

On a completely related note that I will not expound upon until certain things happen: YE GODS!

*I knew I had my pen with me when I went to work today. Around 3:55 PM, I emptied my jeans, donned my Dickies, and transferred the contents of my pockets as I usually do. While at work, I noticed my pen missing, and swore that I'd brought it. An hour or two later, while taking a cigarette break, I noticed a pen in the breezeway, sans cap (which was, miraculously, a few feet away) and much begrimed. Upon closer inspection, I determined that it was MY PEN, and that someone had driven over it. A quick test ensured its continued value as a writing utensil, and a little scrubbing removed most of the dirt. Reunited, my pen and I have done little this evening, but does that matter? Of course not. All that matters is that my pen rides by my side again, and will do so until it decides that it is neither wanted nor useful, whereupon it will vanish or be cast into a paper-and-aluminum grave. Either fate will be met with morose resignation.**

**I don't think I've waxed poetic about anything to this degree, at least in writing, ever since I consigned the Blue Bastard to the scrap heap, and I don't think anyone but my brother read those particular words.