Sunday, 23 December 2001 | Insides

It was a strange day, one that surged and waned like deep breaths, like North Carolina weather. Today's weather, by the way, was perfect for bike riding. I neither shivered nor broke a sweat as I pedaled through a nearby neighborhood of old, restored houses with big glass windows like fish tanks—perfect, dustless insides on display for those who pass by. Part of today I was stuck under the covers, breathing out of a crack at the top, eyes open, eyes closed. I ate a string of strange things that don't go together, none of it substantial, and therefore I never knew whether I was supposed to feel hungry or full. Involuntarily copy-edited a Christmas letter. (Successfully) avoided the phone. Played Scattergories. Straightened the house. Did lots of unconnected things that made me feel rather goalless. Wondered about how I feel, how I'm supposed to feel, and whether those are the same. It's raining now, and my bed is beckoning. I have to work tomorrow, and I absolutely dread it.