Some people have been known to describe certain days as "dull, prosy sort of days," but I think there is very little that's dull about a prosy sort of day.
Prosy days are comforting and regular, just like the favorite books of our childhoods, bound in familiar covers with dog-eared pages, smears of chocolate dotted here and there throughout.
Today has been comfortably prosy - the sky is clouded over. The wind is gentle and mildly chill, and I've spent the day inside. My television is broadcasting football games, wins and losses, victories and numbing defeats. (Take that, Chicago.)
My radio is silent, my pen still, my kitchen cool and empty. The living-room curtains are drawn and since Percy the rabbit is in Ft. Myers with his mother, 'his lamp' is off as well.
My other roommates are MIA as well, so I have withdrawn to my room with my curtains only slightly ajar and the lights on.
I love the weekends that I don't have to work. I can write and paint and play as I please, with a single deadline - to be in bed by midnight Sunday.
Five hours and counting!
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