an unmade bed, an open door.

Fun is slippery.
So, I guess I'm just relaxing for now.
The list of things to do can be a coaster to my coffee.
I'll simply watch the world through this open door.
Pick things up later.
Relaxing now.

Go on, let things flow.
Air blows in, sometimes out.
A fly or bee from time to time visiting.
The indistinct noises, a chainsaw, a holler; they don't call me out.
This is living, this is just some time.
I'm being still.

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Words are not thoughts. Words are have style. Sometimes, I see, words  with serifs, for example. My thoughts are always sans-serif. Maybe that makes them easier to read when they are very, very small. Today, the thoughts are like that. They are microscopic, crawling around like paramecia... ahhh... they are cute and innocent things. They have neither cadence nor rhyme. They crawl on the ground.