No, this is the "the prose keeps flowing and the events that keep flowing from each other keep making sense so I just keep writing them down, except it's all taking place in one everlastingly long evening and am I sure this damn spaghetti supper has not slipped into the Underhill or some other time-dilational sort of place because how many things can happen with the winds and the Canada goose brothers and Janet's gran and aaaaaaaagh."
I'll bet many of you didn't know that the San Mateo Bridge (over the San Francisco Bay) is infinite, but it is. Particularly when you are driving east over it at dawn because you have already dropped markgritter off at SFO before dawn, so you're really exhausted and the sun is really bright. It just goes on, and on and on and on. I remain convinced that there is a tiny piece of me that got trapped there, and remains, and will be driving east over the San Mateo Bridge at dawn for the rest of time. Civilizations will rise and fall, the Sun will eat the Earth as it dies, and there will still, in some metaphysical sense, be a bit of me driving east over the San Mateo Bridge at dawn.
I am beginning to feel this way about Chapter 11 of The True Tale of Carter Hall as well.
On the other hand, the stuff really still does make sense, and there's no rule that says I can't revise it in the draft so that it's Chapters 11 through 42 or whatever it turns out to be, instead of just 11, if it still makes sense and is interesting later. In the meantime it's creating a heck of a lot of fictional bad coffee, though.