It has been decided.  Or like with far too many things in my life recently, it has been decided for me: I am crazy.  I talked it over with the hallway closet.  It never sleeps apparently.  I was trying to get further up, more close but leaning against the grained, white paint too personal, an interjected cough catching me by surprise.  It is all more minesterial convention than I was leading myself to suspect, nunnish.  We talked turkey.  It understands it's just an excercise in description, and the shyness and the romantic allure was just my imagination eloping with my better senses with my realizing, whatever.  I look at Orby who from that angle does look both more shy and innocent, and I wonder if my bed may not be the culprit.  I wonder if being tied from my cieling may not make for a more objective focal point.  The rectangular grooves in the hallway door less personifiable.  The orbed ball and shaft less calling.  Still, as I here on out stick to more, albeit without apology, objectivity sacrificing perception, tell me there isn't more going on here than chaste inanimation.