Killing time at the office, listening to the Philip Glass soundtrack for "The Hours," truly one of the most beautiful and bleak records I've heard. Probably listened to it a lot this time last year as well.
There are out there a list of blues and lavenders reflected against snowy roofs and roads that are probably known to the ghosts of the Impressionists, but few others. I'm looking out the office window, a narrow window but nice, with a tree a few feet away that I'd like to equip with a birdfeeder. I meant to sew a curtain for it, when I first moved in -- it has vertical blinds, which I despise -- but haven't quite gotten to that amid other projects.
My useful day is drawing to a close. More useful than yesterday, to be sure.
There are others with moods bouncing around my midst as well, the static of the spouse, the anxiety and Christmas angst of one friend, the post-breakup blues of another. I am not a good source of comfort today. So it goes.
We spin so not to sink.
laptop confessional
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