I stumbled up away from the couch and warehouse footstools, opening a can of clam chowder as Moonbeam followed me, jumping up onto the kitchen stool with an expectant mew. It's like a secret between us: these two tiny, thoughtful mews that barely make any noise. We've come to adore one another and keep good company. I set the brazier on and wondered about how quiet and empty the house felt. He looked at me still, appreciating my balancing act of stirring the soup, petting him, washing something, petting him, ad. infini-felis. Sitting down to eat I was vaguely aware of how the spoon rung against the bowl, the way my hand firmly but gently gripped the back of his neck as our 22 year old cat, Sandy, lurched into the kitchen. I could feel the muscles in Moonbeam's back tense, wanting to play or torture the curmudgeon. The old cat has blood in his urine, isn't able to go in the right spots, loses control, like an addled man. It's sad to see him degenerate so slowly, just like my great-gran. Death in my life is never accute and sudden, which is strangely comforting.

Later on I got tired and tried to pick him up from resting on my derilect old chair. He mewed loudly, looked at me, purred and rolled over for me to rub his chest. Finally he acquiesced and I climbed into bed, laying there in the darkness, dully stroking his head and backside affectionately.

Besides petting the cat and reading I haven't felt motivated to do anything else. People make me feel tired and I feel like I'm repeating the same things I always say. I should feel more excited about being half way through a publishable story, but the writing is just there: a serviceable hobby, some occasional passion. There's this accute sense of...boredom; not the longing or depressed kind, but a sortof dull feeling. A thin silver film coats the sky like laquer outside, evergreens pulsating richly as ruddy browns and burgundies remind me of red-haired girls. It's the type of feeling that life is just what it is, without quandry, expectations, anything. I almost want to feel dissatisfied, but I don't feel bad. I just feel...here.

There are projects to attend to, though. I still need to write about that month old trip with Jen, perhaps write another review. This is the type of afternoon where people kill themselves and run errands around town. This is the type of day where nothing seems worth saying.

It just is, and so am I.

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