Today I spent the morning at a mine plant that is rumored to have been the location that inspired Stephen King to write Desperation.  I sat quietly with my computer for awhile and no great novels flew from my fingers.  I spent a really long time staring at Jerry, my coworker as we drove around Nevada for hours and hours and, well, hours. Elko is now crazy on fire across the freeway, and I am hoping I get to actually sleep all night, at least until I have to wake up at 3:30 to learn more about the business.  That ought to make me feel important, right?  Or tired.  Aren't they the same thing?