In bed.

I am writing this while in bed.  No - not because I can't get out of bed, but it is simply the most comfortable spot I've found in my parents' house - in my bed in my old room.  This is where I have spent most of the little spare time I've had to work on my laptop.

I need to wake up in four hours to catch my flight back to LA.  It's hot out.  No - rather, it's hot in my room, which is upstairs, with windows facing the backyard and seldom getting the summer breezes.  I lie completely still.  I feel small beads of sweat forming on my forehead.  I turn out the lamp and sit in the darkness for a moment, closing my eyes, breathing more slowly.  It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop (on the carpet of my room).  It is dark outside - none of the other houses behind ours have a single visible light on.  In this space, and in the cul-de-sac adjacent to our street, life is at rest.

I can't remember the last time I even used the word cul-de-sac.

Life in LA seems far away, the freeway traffic and the overdue dry cleaning all but a distant memory.  My Blackberry vibrates and my temporary ignorance is shattered.

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