I have to write an uncharacteristically short piece today. It's 5:05 am as I'm writing this, and I have to be nicely tucked into my cubby at my Real Job in less than two hours.
I wish I had time to clean my house.
It feels kind of like seeing someone crash on a bike while you're driving, and seeing it's too late to do anything about it.
Of course my outcome is a bit less tragic.
I see these blobs of dog hair collecting on the floor, chalk dust accumulating from my scribblings on the bedroom chalkboard, a thin, conspicuous film on virtually every flat surface.
Lately all I've had time to do is notice.
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