The house is dark except for my room.
I am alone, except Atticus is laying on my bed, his head almost in my lap. Every now and then I pet his ears. Cowboy is curled up at the threshold of my door.
The room is well lit, and all is quiet except for this computer quietly playing the sounds of the oud.
Hot tea is seeping on my bedstand, and I am perched on my bed with research and a purple pen, quietly digging away as thoughts from the outside flood in now and then.
A police car siren waxes and wanes somewhere outside in the dark, cold, night.
I snuggle into my pillow and continue to read.
Advertisement
