The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the uneasy comfort of the bed. I eye the flimsy container of trail mix lying in wait, my lightly salted prey. rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my blanket cocoon, I stumble towards nourishment.
I attack my snack, and settle into the beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights, mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen, tip bleeding into a beige throw bought for a newly redecorated room.
Unnoticed, the stain spreads, advancing on the threads of the throw. I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow and curse silently, and wonder if it can be hidden by rearrangement and ultimately decide that a little folding will do the trick.
Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton, primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.