In Remembrance of Things Past, Proust spent nearly half a page just talking about watching the light and shadows changing on the balcony of his room. That guy is such a card! Who'd think you could read about something so stupid and find it so interesting, anyway? In some ways it makes him seem like the most arrogant of authors. Dan Brown would have had at least one mention of a self-flagellating albino dwarf in there, and Raymond Chandler would have surely tossed in a broad with legs up to her waist, and they would have both had a murder. Instead, I got some sun and clouds and a little bit of rain.
I should figure out where my phone is.
J and I did dishes this morning (after I ate the pancakes he made me) and talked a lot.
Unfortunately I slept really poorly last night and even though I went to bed at midnight and didn't get out of it until 11 I still look like a raccoon.
And yes, it's raining today. There was a dark circle under one of the pilings of the bridge that seemed to be attracting seagulls. I thought maybe it was an oil spill and there were a bunch of dead fish around it, but maybe it was just some runoff hitting the river.