The happy place

It’s hard to keep a diary when I spend most of the time on the yellow sofa.

There were sparks flying in the microwave the other day when we did warm some potatoes in a glass bowl.

Through the window, it looked like a diorama of the apocalypse. The sparks looked like flashes of lightning sent out like a divine punishment to smite the potatoes.

The firewood we got from our neighbours looks like they’ve been eaten on by termites.

Once when I was working in finance there used to be some type of sweet pastries like cinnamon rolls or muffins once a week, laid out in piles in the common areas.

When I got back once from a long weekend, early, I saw that they’d forgotten to throw away the uneaten ones; they were still lying there when I got back, dried. But now they were all covered in flies.

I remember thinking then that had they all concentrated their eating to one cinnamon roll, then the others could roll be eaten.

Now instead I think about that novel by Edgar Allan Poe, the masque of read death out something.

Because there is something decadent about the whole scene in my mind eye.

And I thought about that when I saw the termite riddled firewood

And I’m not sure whether it’s soothing or unsettling that everything got ruined this way.