Writer's Souris Solitude

I awoke thinking about living in Souris this morning, up in P.E.I., alone. I wonder if Lou would let me rent his house there in the winter? On second thought, spring or early summer might work just as well and it would be less harsh. I could go out to the Madeleines for a break on the overnight ferry, and speak French there, spend hours at that piano bar. What's the place called? Hell, what's the town called, let alone the bar there? The one were Sally, Sophie and I spent so many hours at lunch and dinner. The one I visited another time with Mike, JP, Cat, Bill, Linda and Dr. Arthur Broadus, my roommate aboard that wonderful trip on board "Moonracer." There it is: "Cafe de la Grave." Is that right? I think it is. "De la Grave"? Why did it not alert me, horrifiy me, mortify me, so to speak? Death's Cafe!? It is what it is or was? Really? So I wonder whether I could hang out up there for a few months and write, write, write? It was just a dream. I do not appear to be in eminent danger of being hired to work by anyone. I have a gut feeling that I am going to carve my own route out of all this confusion and rejection.