Last night, there was a thunderstorm and lightning flashed around the drawn edges of the curtains. I woke up only a few hours after I had fallen asleep and wondered briefly if I should unplug things, but was too tired to coordinate any real effort. I have no electronics of real value anyway—let ball lightning claim this TV as it did the last one.
The morning was full of rain, which I have not seen in weeks; it was cooler and suddenly life was a lot more tolerable by far.
In some universe, there is some Platonic version of myself in wool and plaid and there are red leaves underfoot and tea and weighty tomes that smell faintly of vanilla, and leaded mullions and darkly-polished wood paneled hallways and the curious versimilitude of four o’clock in the afternoon, in autumn.