Tonight is very cold and my heater has mysteriously vanished from my bedroom. The house is empty and all I can hear is the monotonous clock-like dripping of a broken gutter and distant cars driving along dampened roads. The blanket which seemed only too small last night is now engulfing me. I am swimming amongst a collection novels, notebooks and pens, alternating between reading and writing. Tonight is beautiful. Sometimes I wish I could spend the rest of my life this way.