I got up and drank coffee, cooked bacon, went back to bed.

I lay on the sofa with my face against the leather and the pale mid-morning light, the sound of blues music and the cat mewing, the laundry machine, the smell of fresh pine from the Christmas tree.

It is Sunday and there’s really nothing much I need to do.

Even better, less tomorrow.

Categories: musings, writing

Tags: journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, postaday, William Pearse writer