and somehow, suddenly, it's past five and i've done nothing today that would be considered, in capitalist american terms, productive.

i, however, feel entirely sated and content and pleasantly weary. the wind is whispering of rain, adam duritz is wailing about blue buildings and something in a shade of grey, i've got two loads of clean clothes, clean sheets, and clean towels smiling at me from the laundry basket, and the teapot is starting to hum.
life is good.