I'm not working. The guitar is in storage and there's no piano in this house. I am not singing.
I am smoking.
Staying up late.
Not getting dressed. Watching TV. Napping.
Now and then, my mind buzzes with ideas and questions, book titles, Holly Spring-related tasks I could be doing.
But mostly I feel the between-ness of this time, stare slack-jawed at the sky and move like a sloth.