Tonight, even my imagined readers have left me. For once, I do not mind. Really, I am in the mood for solitude. If I do write anything of import, I want to type my incoherent feelings unencumbered by who might see them. I want to use long run-on sentences and the backspace button at will. Writing within this battle of disgruntled and reflective thoughts is time- and energy consuming for me. It calls for a snack and a cup of coffee nearby.
This is not a good time or place to have any crumb-bequeathing edibles nearby. As long as I may be at this, I fear my typing is not loud enough to scare away the mouse that seems to have taken up residence beneath the computer desk. The tiny little scratches upon the wooden floor (or is that a miniature mouth chewing on a stack of printer paper?) are about to drive me to bed. Since I don't have a laptop of my own, and my mind and emotions are a thick mushy glop of unsortableness, I will go to bed at this ridiculously early hour with the Archbold Community Library's latest selection from Alexander McCall Smith. If anyone out there is reading my words, please stop and go find one of his books. If you're disappointed in it, please let me know so that I can straighten you out.
Maybe over that snack and cup of coffee.
In another room of this old, hole-riddled house.