I'm sitting in a chair that I've finally moved to a productive part of my living room. The Christmas tree is up, and there are unused ornaments strewn everywhere. I'm listening to music I've recorded in the past wondering if any of it might be considered to be salvageable. Of late I have not been taking any of the music-making seriously, and I'm hoping to change that. Next May will mark five years since I've lived in this house. My children will be spending more time here in the future. They're about ten feet behind me at the moment, separated by the wall between my living room and my bedroom. They don't have a dedicated place to stay yet. I have a housemate who lives in the other upstairs room, but he'll be moving out at some point in the near future. At that point, that room will be transformed into a space for them to live and grow up. I get sad when I don't know for sure that they're doing okay. They spend so much time away from me,
Striking down the mundane and dastardly while retaining a certain obscure turn of phrase, denoting something elusive yet concrete.