I'm sure there's a reason I feel that I must stay awake nights to write something. You see, the feeling of having written something is satisfying--a bit like having a rounded meal, or exercising just the right amount, or waking up from a good nap; except that this means I miss my nap, don't exercise, and forget to eat.
The house is all locked up for the night; we have big brown metal shutters on the windows, here, and the door is a bit tricky to handle, sometimes--it has to fit just so in its place. "Just so" seems to fit a lot of things in this house; the dishwasher will work only if you poke it in the right places, the gate in the yard will only work if you jiggle it at the right angle, the showers will only work if you keep the shower head tilted the right direction and don't use any other devices in the house that might conceive of using hot water.
My dragon has decided that it is past my bedtime, and so she has placed herself on my lap in a manner that would have discouraged an amateur from continuing any sort of activity that did not involve smoothing said dragon (who, having felt intuitively that I spoke about her to someone else, has commenced purring). But I know something she doesn't know: I can type one-handed.
So yeah, we lit a fire because it was so cold today. I put another log on tonight and stuck my feet in front of it and began to type away merrily until I realized that my, how warm were my toes and OH MY, how plastic are my socks.
Millions of peaches. Peaches for me. Millions of peaches. Peaches for my dessert. Yum yum yum.