Outside my window, the arm of West Seattle looks like a Greek hillside, dotted with a crowd of houses, all of it washed out into a blurry, mouse-colored haze by a sheer mist hanging over the bay. There's a streak of clouds overtop of it that looks as if someone opened a vein and it bled out until only a gash of faint pinkness was left in the blue flesh. I can inject morbidity into anything, I can.
And now it's half an hour later and the sky looks as if someone has taken a brillo pad and some turpentine to a painting, scrubbing away a layer of dark blue paint to reveal a light blue patch.
I'm still feeling a bit out of focus at work. And that, in turn, causes me to feel as if I'm slowly suffocating in work. It's not one big whump of an avalanche of work--it's more like feather after feather of tasks drifting down, accumulating into a bigger and bigger pile, and like a lobster in a pot you don't really notice the gradual change. Until suddenly you're buried six feet deep under feathers.
In other news, I've mastered oatmeal and that's nice. Very tasty. As mentioned before, a lot like rice pudding.
Current mood: somewhere between mellow and brain death.