Fake Jail

My head's been scattered this past week. It's been too gorgeous out to think-- the peak of fall is somehow rendering me impotent. There's no way to ignore it and just no good way to drink it in. Stare at a tree all day? We watch the season's progress from the jail-like basement window at Soma. Our fave leaves have alreadt burnt out and fallen. They were electric red!

I imagine asking Liza to switch rooms so I can write from somewhere a little more miserable and evocative. My room's better, really. The south side of the house is lit by the morning sun and my closets are so big that Drekka could play in them (which might happen next month). There are bars on her window and a subtle Victorian print (like texture on a roll of paper towels) on the walls. I'd imagine I was Oscar Wilde, imprisoned for buggery. Oh, how the desperate romance would propell me! I might even don a ball and chain. Anything to distract me from the goddamn trees.