I have no idea what I'm doing tonight. I keep looking for things and failing to find them until I realize that they were right in front of me to begin with. I keep putting things in the wrong cupboard. I keep setting out to do something and then forgetting what it was. I've done so much woolgathering, I could knit a sweater. Well, a metaphorical sweater, anyway. I might as well have spent the night watching a movie. There's no point trying to read when I get like this, as I forget every word. There's no point in trying to do anything on the computer, either, as I'll end up being distracted by the first shiny bit of flash I see, and then I'll stare at it for ages. I think I'll go watch television. My brain already being mush, it can do me no harm.
It is nearly eight o'clock, and light still lingers. The pale smile of the waxing moon has only just appeared. The day was one which invited languor, being filled with soft breezes and warm light which made the dogwood blossoms glow, and the sound of hummingbird wings. The front door retains some winter damp, and must be tugged open. I barely had the energy to bother. After all, I could leave the windows open and simply let the day flood through. Spring is using all the energy available, and there is none left for me.