He awoke in the pre-dawn light, and cursed himself for neglecting to bring a watch; not only was he uncertain of the time, but he was beginning to doubt if he would be aware of when the tenth day arrived, and he saw no glory in unmet deadlines, even self-imposed ones. Lacking a pen or pocket notebook, he decided to tear a page out of the Field Guide to the Birds of North America every morning, judging that the system would at least keep him within a day or two of his schedule, and folding the removed pages into the back cover, so they could still be referenced if needed. He had thought about just folding the page over in the morning, but found the act of physically tearing out the page that much more rewarding, more satisfying on a spiritual level; anyway, it wasn't a library book, or particularly valuable.
ah, the relief of mercury finally leaving retrograde, and the delightful arrival of a plethora of [platonic] love letters
In this world, right here, a pool of light gathered closely around a lamp, dusk settling under clouds passing deeply through an autumnal afternoon, the reflected glow of red maples lengthening the evening. Cats saunter across the street, intent on dinner or adventures or a soft cushion; cars work their way towards driveways and dinner. A change of seasons, animals growing thicker pelts and people airing woolen overcoats, the wind and rain battling for supremacy with the lengthening rays of sunlight. Someone sneezes, someone coughs, someone makes soup.