Combining network tv, torrents, and xbmc yields lost hours and lost sleep. It was about noon when my gluttony acquiesced to fatigue. I slept 5 hours, and then woke inspired to hash out some javascript (jQuery). Just after 7, I came up to the kitchen. The windows reflected the well lite room where dad has merged with his cell, still in the now month long conversation between himself and duke. Despite being a vocal Luddite, he's unparalleled in the companionship he shares with that machine. His contrarieties are noting new. What is new, but equally expected is my relationship with the sun. I had missed the narrowing window of daylight. Surprisingly, this is the first time that's happened in my approaching three month leave from even the facade of, or at least the acceptable procrastination of, productive time use.
I had come upstairs with a cumbersome weight in obligation. I've systematically instilled a guilt associated with any neglect of aerobic exercise, and have given neglect two good days. It is silly what ways on my conscious and tragic what does not.
My wardrobe to alleviate the pressure of silly self-imposed regiments consisted of shorts, a long sleeve T, and a hat. It's been over two seasons since I've worn a long sleeve for activities, let alone a hat. And, within the same range, I have only once (due to rain) worn a shirt for a whole run before today. Had I run longer, maybe more than my hat would have come off. But I only ran to the short end of the road and back.
Having a warm well lite return, I can say I enjoy the cold, and I enjoy the night. A chilly night steals away warmth providing a blanketing embrace that fortifies an unexpected comforting solitude. There is no importance or urgency, save occasional speeding cars with drivers understandably unprepared for pedestrians.
Aside from a short run, my accomplishments today are null. I did not even completely dress. (But what's the point after eight anyway? Then again, in my position, when is there ever a point?) I did, however, perform incantations to the kitchen counter tops with bleach. In spite of my best efforts, the magical dust will not now nor ever be removed or even displaced. The keepers of dirt, the dogs, ensure of this much.
The cleaning effort is to appease mom, who will go under anesthesia and a knife for the umpteenth time. Timing is convenient; she only cares about the presentation of the kitchen because Colleen will be here tomorrow. Without this, I would have no gesture to outlet under voiced concern.
