327 Market

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I woke up at 10. With a glorious eleven hour deposit in the ol' sleeping account. It must be foggy, I haven't opened the windows. I feel quite spent, having put the finishing touches on the epic entry for Dec 11 (will any one read it-- did I do an okay job of masking my sense of isolation and bitterness?). I am still in my PJ's. There is a mysterious bruise on my knee (bowling? I am rediscovering a bunch of inner-thigh muscles I forgot I had). I am dydrated and sore. (nothing a trip to the kitchen can't cure). The house was as I had left it, maybe a few more crumbs on the floor. No one had gotten the mail in two days (bills, catalogues and the new Comics Journal-- I still haven't slogged through the last one). My room is still a revolting mess (wha! no one cleaned it while I was gone?!). My bed was empty and rubber inner-tube scraps are still strewn across the unswept floor. It is home, in all of its shabby hobbit hole splendour. The submarine people await my god-like ministrations at the drafting table and the voice in my head is the only sound to break the perfect, Sunday morning stillness of Market Street.