By memento


I'm tired but I can't sleep. Every time the furnace kicks on, it wakes me up. It's running constantly, even though we have it turned down to 70.

I crave breathable, fresh air. The house is so quiet before dawn, even the cat looks puzzled at my strolling around in the semi-dark. 

It could be worse. I could be holed up for the winter in some unheated forest shack with someone who doesn't love me and makes me cook with nothing but moose and the occasional, trapped muscrat.

Jeez there are some strange shows on TV lately. Have all Americans turned into either hoarders, renegade hunters or hillbilly moonshine makers? It's worrisome. No wonder I can't sleep.

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