every day in 2016, write a sentence or a paragraph or a poem that appreciates
home comforts
Lindy and I live in a small apartment. it has a tiny kitchen and an awkwardly shaped bathroom, it has a ridiculous little "hallway" that connects the living room, the bathroom, and the bedroom. the "hallway" is big enough to change your mind in, but not big enough for you to turn around in if you do. the living room, bedroom, and breakfast nook are big enough, but without space to spare. still, it's big enough. more importantly, we've grown accustomed to it. we know what's in there and what isn't, we know where we expect things to be. traveling, we haven't had that for six days. on the train, the seats in reserved coach class felt so cramped that we upgraded to a roomette on the way home. and we still feel compressed. (I think a Spartan might think the engineer who designed the roomette had done an adequate job, but he had overdone the concept "Spartan".) the bathroom down the hall amazes me. it has everything a bathroom needs except elbow room. coffee is ready most of the day from about 6:00 am til about 10:00 pm. so there's nothing really wrong here, nothing to really complain about, but everything feels wrong, or at least not quite right. I'm itching to get home. I miss and appreciate, oh, damn near everything about our little apartment. maybe by midnight tonight!
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