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I haven't slept in my bed for a few days. That's not a bad thing, just a statement of fact.

I've been spending a great deal of time with N. before she was to leave. But as it turns out, her departure was delayed. Which is opportune, as it means more time to spend with her.

I finally got in contact with the landlord for the place that I have my eye on: a two bedroom house in Seminole Heights. It's on a tree-lined street which dead ends a literal stone's throw away on the river, where there's a small park. It's about half way between my two jobs, and the rent is less than I expected to pay for another crappy apartment in this area. It's perfect.

Woke up next to N. again this morning. She slept in, and so I rose alone for my obligatory coffee and cigarette. I read a bit more of the Monk biography of Wittgenstein, and with coffee in hand watched Meet the Press as I do every Sunday morning. Occasionally I would peek in on her while she slept.

I had to bring Moose to get his new car this afternoon, a 96 Civic whose dashboard seems completely constructed out of duct tape. The transaction had an air of awkwardness, as the seller brought his mother along. She looked over his shoulder and instructed him how to fill out each line of the title. To add to the absurdity of it all, this went down in the middle of a shopping center in Clearwater. The whole thing smacked of a modernization of something that might have been penned by Beckett.

Afterwards, I felt the need to get something done. I hit up the library and wrote a few pages on Wittgenstein's Tractarian ethical theory (or lack thereof, which is my point).

Simpsons later. And Criminal Intent.

Tonight might be the first night in a several days that I actually sleep in my own bed. But I hope not.