Sitting on the dock of the bay

There is a soft light that streams through the window next to me, and I feel as though there is a self-contentedness about the house. I enjoy the subdued colours that come out in the afternoon. It belies the significance of the days to come, but I'd rather not think about that right now. I feel those comforting stubs of a beard across my face, and imagine the strings of an acoustic guitar being plucked. I can't imagine doing anything now, because it would be wasted on a moment like this. Ripeness is plainly all.