The same room.  The same bedpost.  The same way my back hurts when I sit like this.  But having to notice it now.  My door is actually more closed (than I guess it usually? is) than yesterday.  I feel less enamored, less romantic.  No sticky dripping, no word fuzzy enough to digitize the stuffy demand of analogy.  Today is a lie in bed all day and stare at a brown, flattened spherical bedknob nailed to a bedpost.  With a white door focused or unfocused in the distance, whichever I choose.  It's when I choose that I can tell there is more going on.  And today I choose for it to not.  After all, they are component 12-133-c and component 1441-12-d of my house.  Here to serve me.  Lovely.  I picked them.  I need not be told.  But for all the crystal ball whorling of a gypsy disco I swear, these two will be the death of me.  And if so they will not care, and if not I might get a wink or two at a garage sale.  Otherwise, it is their indifference and my attempts to emulate them until tomorrow.  When I may be more inclined to try.  When my bedroom door is opened wider and I can see them lost in doting and jaded indignation.