Our cat Sushia, AKA Kittypants, AKA Schmoofins, AKA Schmadoofles, AKA Snausages, AKA Meowfles, is so excited about the open window that I've almost come to believe that she had forgotten over the course of the winter that the outside world was a thing. The ribald honking of the flock of geese frolicking in the fountains bring her furry widdle ears to furry widdle points and, I think, induce some degree of either cabin fever or anxiety.
I am not now nor have I ever been a furry widdle kitty. The honking reminds me of olden days in a Colorado carpeted with black and grey and white. I nonetheless feel restless. I feel I ought be working. And indeed, I ought be working, on something. The wheels are spinning. But without a concrete goal I don't really make any progress. Really I should be creating my own concrete goals now, it's not as if I'm not aware of how one ought respond to these situations. I just... don't. The struggle against the self is a constant and mighty one.
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