there's a cat wreaking havoc in the hall. I made her leave my room when she started trying to eat the plastic bags on the chair next to my desk. now it sounds like she's bouncing a ball.
my window is closed and my fan is turned off, and I have a blanket in my bed, but it's been cloudy, and I'm cold. it feels like the temperatural equivalent of the sound glass beads make when you shake their container.
my thoughts are a floral pattern, a Victorian romance, the text of Les Misérables. they're dark and artistic. slang and colloquialisms are below me, and everything has a slight upperclass accent to it, Bostonian or Parisian.
everything is silent, like being just under the surface of bath water. my breathing is in audible, and the absence of sound hangs heavy. there will be birds soon, but the sun isn't even peeking over the horizon, yet, and for now they sleep on.
I have lights on in my room, but I know that if I were to turn them off, the corners would turn to vashta nerada and my shades would block any light from the streetlight, the reflections from the lake, the rising sun. it's dark and peaceful and beautiful.
good morning, world.