The microwave had finished heating my third of a cup of coffee and I heard it beep as I finished reading a letter in my room. General correspondence, an update, friendly news. I walked through the hallway in the microwave's direction past a painting depicting a calm lake with rolling hills behind a tree line lightly reflected in the water. Salmon pie and scalloped potatoes were sitting on the counter across from the antique armoire. I still liked to cut all my food in one focused movement rather than one, two, three pieces at a time, was more efficient, helped me get right down to it. The coffee was bittersweet because it'd been brewed the day before and that was just the way I liked it the next day: bitter lukewarm slightly saccharine pseudo-swill resting in a dainty mug depicting something pastoral; this one had a canoe and read "Paddles." Felt like taking a dip. It was almost time for a commercial break.

Waiting for the phone to ring, sort of hoping it would, sort of hoping it wouldn't. If it did I'd consider answering it. The books surrounding me were multiplying: bits and bites, stalagmites. The Age of Fable. Started my first roman: good for the mind if you've got the time (it was fitting since one of the characters is autodidactic). I read on the floor in front of the muted television and tried to convince myself that the Cardinals wouldn't be Super Bowl slaughtered. I couldn't pick the winner until the next recurrence of freckle radiation, a state of being that recurred from time to time during which my freckles slightly vibrated, capable of detection only by those descended from the Malarmites and the Rhododendrons (there's a glow), according to Holbin, during which I came to conclusions regarding which sports teams to bet for. Didn't always work but whatever.

There's an odd scene in North by Northwest where a plane is trying to gun down Cary Grant but can't hit him even though the terrain is flat and barren. The plane eventually collides with a transport truck. Seems like Hitchcock's trying to say you can't kill Cary Grant and if you try something really obvious is going to kill you. Ideologically speaking, technology is subservient to humanity in the desert (unrelated).

Took another sip of my coffee and turned my head. There, in front of my eyes, was a giant wreath adorned with bulbs and plastic birds. I started writing and remembered a dissimilar situation where I'd started writing and someone started talking to me. A reclining individual was sitting beside me, listening and reading. She'd seen the movie he mentioned which I hadn't and coughed several times in exclamation. He spoke four languages and explained a myth in detail even though I mentioned that I was familiar. Wasn't sure if there was a definite point or if he was trying to see how long he could talk for. Eventually I wanted a cigarette so I asked if he wanted one (he didn't). A girl I used to know in high school walked by without saying anything. While I was smoking later she walked by again and I was embarrassed because I didn't remember where she'd moved back from a couple years back. Took another drag, went back inside.

They made the best *&^%%ing cupcakes I'd ever tasted. If you like cupcakes you should go there and try some. Every crumb's like a cupcake in its own right, each part representative of the whole, each bite igniting a waking dream wherein you suddenly find yourself surrounded by a particular version of reality in which you're cognizant of a constitutional metaphysical point you'd discerned while sleeping as you watch the people saunter by outside reflecting upon the day's events. Damn good cupcake indeed.

The book I started reading presented a number of general facts regarding the dimensions of a country to which I had never travelled. Might go there for real some day, who knows. 'Till then, I've got books, lots of them, for imaginary voyages in my room. Coffee was spilt all over my dictionary: this was a good sign. Finished my cup, flicked the mute off, sat there watching different shows for a maximum of 2.7 unflipped minutes, slowly started nodding off, admitted that I missed sun in winter.