"And what's the future, who will choose it?"

[bronze_ribbons]

I was asleep before midnight last night, thanks to something in a bento box that failed to agree with me, but before the cramps set in, it had been a pretty nice day. At work, I wrestled with calendars and clauses, and took my camera along when I went out for lunch:







Dinner was at a Thai-Japanese joint in my neighborhood; the organizer wore a very pettable houndstooth fur that had us cracking Dalmatian jokes. At his house afterward, I curled up with my crocheting at one end of a sofa, where one of the cats periodically hopped on me and loudly purred underneath the square I'd then drape over her.

My dreams included Ernests Gulbis and logospilgrim, though their specific roles have since vanished from my memory. Ernie may have been negotiating for a sleeping spot in an attic, and the pilgrim may have been discussing a shopping expedition, it being sixteen-odd hours later, the lines between conscious and subconscious have long since blurred beyond definition.

The first two submissions of the year have been sent. The first fantasy tennis team of the year has been posted. I didn't feel up to practicing yoga or dancing, but I did scrub at the tar and sap on the car.

Wishing you all a year of good tidings, and of feeling heard.