I am sitting in my 'sitting room' that is commonly called a 'living room'. Except, in the layout of my apartment it should be the dining room. So I can call it anything I want, then. It is an L-shaped room with the computer at the short end. To my right is the kitchen, which sits in the crook of the L, to the left is the wall of windows and the door to the balcony. I can see out to the balcony and also the tv and the aquarium. And keep an eye on anything on the stove. It is the perfect location. The computer sits in an armoir that is also overflowing with a small stereo, a couple of cd's, baskets and file boxes with stuff thrown in, a mandarin orange scented candle, an array of bills, scrap bits of paper, a paperweight not weighting any paper and a printer that does not work unless you print big and double space. There is also a wedding invitation and some lip gloss. The beauty of the armoir is being able to close the doors and forget all about the mess. Except that lately I have been sitting here reading stories of lives as if reading a novel. Several novels. The doors are not usually ever closed.
Outside my windows I can see the trees that block the view of the building opposite. It will be a few years before they will block the view of the new condo being built, but for the time being there is a crane that hovers... I have put my plants on tables or hanging from the railing so that I can see them also through the windows.
I see that the windows need cleaning.
Damn. I was having such a good time.