Eleven days later: I cannot continue this portrait of Missouri. I am not a writer; I am a documentarian. I can only write of now, late night, drinking the last beer. Back in bed now with the fan blowing like a hurricane across the bedroom. Despair like attendant angels hovering about my bed. I will be a grown up art director and go to sleep and face another day. I will diet tomorrow stop thinking that I am nearly thirty and unloved and overweight and miserable with my life.