Sort of strange and sort of funny, under the circumstances, to think of this life as decadent, but I think it is anyway. The heart of decadence isn’t over-the-top opulence, but a place where one can be self-indulgent in the extreme. This is such a place and space. I’m living a decadent life.

And after indulging myself deeply in days half-composed of doing whatever I feel (let’s watch some more jimmydore), and half-composed of trying to be somewhat diligent (the laundry is caught up and the two new little plants in pots out front are watered), I find myself in an alternated state. Last night very early it was time for a nap, and the nap blissfully lasted eleven hours with just one interruption for micturation. The air was so chill and the bed was so cozy that I had no trouble sliding right back to sleep again.

Thus now at seven a.m. (this is Friday, a post behind, and so again I’m indulging, and in extended parentheses too), I set up the distraction things to run in the background, paying them no mind, and I make a short list of four or five hard things that absolutely need to be done today.

This is one of them. March forth.