It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.

Haven’t stepped foot outside since the last sunset. Don’t plan on breaking this chain. Not today. Today my will is adamantine. Hard as a scimitar. Laziness, my chosen luxury. 

Furthermore…

Someone else brought a package in, retrieved the mail. All junk, anyway. Glad I didn’t waste those fifteen seconds. Time spent under a new duvet is precious, irretrievable. Pushing it off is forsaking a cloud in favor of the gutter.

Furthermore…

Tea doesn’t steep through telekinesis. Mugs aren’t self-sugaring. Spoons do not come with ‘automatic stirring’ buttons.

Furthermore…

Books exist to be read. Aged pages feel good when rubbed between fingers, the scent produced intoxicating.

It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.

***

Rain on the River by George Bellows (1908). Collection: Rhode Island School of Design Museum. Public Domain.