Hang­over Cure: 3 advils, water, day-old Star­bucks cof­fee, The Milk-Eyed Mender, Finally We Are No One, Sum­mer Make Good.

This is not so much a cure as it is just what I’m doing. I don’t think the coffee’s help­ing, for instance. But the music is crucial.

It’s going to be a sunny week in the 50s, which I won’t mind at all. November’s on its way, one of the most favor­able months, I think. I will not be going to Lon­don, it seems, sadly, but instead will be stay­ing in Cam­bridge and see­ing Múm, Ariel Pink, and Bat­tles, assum­ing I choose to break my trend of com­pletely fail­ing to see the shows I’m inter­ested in. It wouldn’t kill me to see Boris tomor­row, either.

Every­thing is being squarely put away lately; the present is becom­ing less cusp-like, more seat-like; the tugs from the past and the future are approach­ing equal foot­ing; the ana­log is mak­ing a really strong show­ing; some­thing that resem­bles hap­pi­ness and per­spec­tive is becom­ing evident.

It’s pretty weird. I haven’t had a panic attack in months.