Today the universe appeared as moderately tetchy, the balance of existence having cambered towards coffee and wine and away from early nights of good sleeping. Also a plague of mould had ruined some agreeable leather sandals, requiring all the shoes of the household to undergo vigorous cleaning. Complete tetchiness is inhibited by the force of satisfaction: the new shelf has stuff on it: properly sorted out folded up stuff, in plastic boxes as yet untouched by dust. The house shifts towards a state of pleasant living.
Symbolic activity peaks on the opening of a pristine notebook.
Does anything sing like clear space?
Uncluttered words, I write: emulous.