This desk is now the living room of a cozy hand-hewn cabin in the Canadian Rockies. A gentle snow is falling. The room smells of pine sap and cookies, always. Also, the generic principle of grandmothers. The taste of Man O'War Dreadnought Syrah (2010) lingers on my tongue. My dog is wearing a sweater, and neither of us feel self-conscious about this. The gentle sounds of Rolling Stones demos and Simon & Garfunkel B-sides waft through the ember-warmed air pockets. I am not feeling self-conscious about those musical choices, either: quality transcends your accusations of pretension or triteness. I get to sleep in tomorrow, in sheets made of flannel and dreams. That boeuf bourguignon you made was just perfect, I will have more for lunch tomorrow. I am sitting on a sheepskin rug from Costco my mother bought me two years ago, in anticipation of just such a moment. We are not fearing death, but embracing the arbitrary and potentially meaningless purpose of life, reveling in the simple joy of involuntary breathing. Your eyes smile. My eyes smile. I don't know who you are. It doesn't matter. This is nice. Thank you, youtube.
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