I have a writing nook now, a dusty corner of a previously drab room, adorned presently with psychedelic artwork and impulse bought, blinky-blinky ornaments. Through the window there’s lavender, and corpulent bubble bees, and my neighbor Big Country hurling obscenities at his deceased wife. It is a fine writing nook.

It is in this writing nook that the first sip of coffee hits my lips every morning and I resolve to be at least one percent less a miserable bastard. Perhaps on a day noteworthy for its rosiness, I could even be open to the idea that my current state of affairs isn’t quite the perplexing disaster I masochistically dream it to be.

It is, like I say, a fine writing nook. And there’s work to be done.