Yesterday, Angela Lansbury turned 78. I'm amused that she shares a birthday with Flea, who turned 41. They ought to do a project together. Maybe a musical.
The moon, barely gibbous, now casts a pale light. I am struck by how quickly the night dims as the moon shrinks. Only a few days ago, the night shadows were sharp and dense next to the bright swaths of moonlight. Now, all the landscape is soft and vague. It reminds me of drifting off to sleep.
Tonight, I noticed a lump under my cat's chin. It wasn't there before. It might be an abscess, but, given the cat's age, I have to consider the possibility that it is a tumor. That would account for her increased listlessness over the last few weeks. If it grows, I'll have to take her to the vet. That is the thing she hates most in the world. Maybe she senses that, eventually, it will be a one-way trip.
Another Friday is here already. Time flies when you're stuck in a place with gravity.