We stopped at Quinn's on the way home from work and had a whoopie pie, of course, but also, for my part, two Fisks, which to me always reads like "Fists" and reminds me of fisting, of course, but also of the common typo I see at work where people mean "first" but instead type "fist," thus adding a rather lewd and/or violent connotation to the otherwise interminable mundanity.

Anyway, we're in the home stretch before the trip. I'm a bit nervous about all the little details. We'll be gone a long time. There are plants and cars to offload onto caretakers and careful packing to be diagrammed. I hear of power converters and other amenities of battery life. While I am planning the logistics of the trip, Andrew is cortically deep into the constructs of his demo, both parts built and parts still imagined. I can hardly pull him into the physical world. But I'm more patient than usual about this endeavor because I know what it is he aims for and that it has a strict deadline. Tonight I asked him to show me the latest bits. He has scenes, still shrouded in debugging scaffolding, that he can run separately. I have a sense of the pieces that make the storyboard and can see the intention in the concepts. While I was waiting for him to jimmy the code so that it would run, I noticed that the only not-black things in his work area are the bottle of ibuprofen, a programming book, the protruding sound card, and the light from the monitor. The white pieces seemed some kind strange outfit of sensory input. I shared my observation with him. He said, "The only things that I absolutely can't make black."