Bukowski and Whitman are stacked on top of each other on the little table in front of my couch.
I was flipping through them reading random poems.
It's raining and I have a lit candle sitting on the window sill.
My pup is asleep underneath the Mexican blanket I bought at the Applefest this past weekend.
And I am sick.
I am about to take another nap.
Sleeping is all I've done today except get something to eat and wonder if he had ideas about leaving this small town and trying to find happiness somewhere far away.
A true crime show I found on Netflix is on but the volume is down a bit so I can't even really makeout what is being said.
I have to work tonight so I'm going to go back to sleep.
I hate being sick.