I still have another deadline, and I’m late working on the piece.  It’s on Kerouac.  So I’m just going to kind of let loose and speak to you in a way that I hope you’ll be able to hear my voice — free of pretension and fear.  Tonight, I stepped outside of my apartment, and I walked down Redondo Avenue.  The fog had settled on the streets, and the street lamps were buzzing in the moisture, glowing like vibrating mirrors.  Here is what I thought about as I walked down the street.  Am I going to meet my deadline?  Can I survive as a writer?  Will the dog in the glasses store think I am intruder?  Have a lived a life worth living?  Have…