I hate Edgar Allan Poe mode. It makes me think too much of sounds and opium. When I find myself thinking of Edgar Allan Poe, I want to punch something, and I think of a black-n-white sketch of a house on a hill. It is not a pleasant mode. It's unsettling.
I would much rather be in an Alfred Hitchcock mode, and think of Grace Kelly and handsome leading men. And cat thieves.
Christmas lights still wrap around our window sill, and the apartment looks cozy with a bottle of wine in the wine rack and one half full on the counter. I have been meaning to paint the living room for a few months now, and am re-considering the effort knowing we want to move in September. Celery Green might be a hard color to commit an entire wall to.
I'm going to bed knowing there are dishes in the sink and unopened mail on my desk, but I care not tonight; it can wait for morning. I would rather turn on some music and do these light chores in the daylight before work, to make it feel like I've accomplished something before an eight hour shift. That is a good feeling--accomplished. "Accomplished". "Polished". Both good words and good feelings.
My roommate stirs on the couch, and for a moment I wonder if she will wake up. Should I wake her up?
Nah. I think I'll just toss a blanket on her and unplug the lights for the night.
