The colors in the house aren't as I'd like them to be. A soft beige sleeping on the sofa, tunneling in from the shadows of the blinds is the only thing that looks familiar to me. That's because it has been there for years and I've documented it on several different occasions. With a lot of different people, too. And although it all will look the same, it isn't. It's been traded out times more than a few. I remember when I slept on that couch, when my sister slept, when my mother slept. When Amy or Israel or Sam, Josh, Bryce, or Jon, Daniel, Katelyn, or Chad sat on the couch. No body really likes to stay, though. It makes me wonder if it resents being so uncomfortable.

There's a ticking that has been bothering me all morning, but nothing has come of it and it has come of nothing. And now that I inspect the room for a final time, I think, although my vision is blurred, that the legs on the piano stool are awfully skinny. They are as proportionate as a cartoon person, but the way its brown is reflected on the tile, I don't see how it holds anything up. They are weak and I wish to put a rug under them to make sure that they do not get sore on such a hard surface.

It's too cold on my floor and too cold on my bed; comfortable isn't something I find lately at home.