I am sitting on my back porch. The humidity and scorching heat of today have worn off. I just put down John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany (Which is wonderful so far, by the way. I am completely obsessed with John Irving right now. The Cider House Rules and The World According to Garp have definitely made my top 10 list recently.) Now it's raining (Luckily my macbook and I are protected by the overhang). I have a cup of mint tea and a blanket. I am entirely content in this moment.
Mostly the poetry I find here, right now, in my solitude makes me want to write, but I don't know what I have to write about anymore. My life, despite all of the madness of the past two years, has calmed down entirely and become quite routine. I spend almost every waking minute either with Dayn or at work. Work is still horrible, and I think it will always be. I guess it's in the nature of the world that those who work their asses off rarely receive the recognition they deserve.
I just choked on a sip of tea and coughed so hard that I now have a headache; there's the disturbance I was waiting for.