Fifth Night

This might well be worth the words— A noise here awoke me. I poured myself out of bed, then poured myself out, sliding into the bath at the bottom of the shower. The bed had yellowed somewhat, roughly where I had been. I lit one-two-three-four... twenty-six candles. Briefly, I thought of mailing it — briefly. (Fortunately) sobered by popped coffee—

It's indistinguishable sometimes. Rather than bother, I prefer to accept that. Easier, I'm sure you'll agree, than wading through six hundred or so synonyms. Easier, too, than doing. It might seem deeply, abhorrently indolent — and there I won't dispute, but it does — or rather, must — have a grain of some such that can't be too far from truth.

What must be noted, what can not not be noted, is that when all is done, and nothing undone, the older-wiser wonder is wiser and fuller of wonder, and older. Where that begins, or ends, or— sorry, I suddenly have that song in mind: "Excuse, please, excuse, please, the rat, the rat, the rat on the keys." Seems appropriate somehow. Noted?