I entertain not even the smallest delusion that anyone will read this for some time, the reason being that I have not written a story yet. That's right. Not a one. None.

The reason I have written nothing is that I have no good ideas. None. Isn't that sad? I think so.

Since nobody is reading this, I can very well say whatever I like, by Jove! I can say that I have pink hair. But I don't. I could say that I can play the bagpipes. But I can't. I could say that at this moment, November 3rd, 2004, at 12:03 AM, I am cuddled in a Hudson's Bay blanket in front of my laptop in a cosy log cabin somewhere near the Manitoba-Nunavut border, with a small fire popping and crackling away and the haunted moan of the North wind echoing in the silent wilderness outside and mingling with the sound of my dogs howling out their woes to the homeless snows, and me like a little ember in the snow, one warm spot in a harsh frozen, world.

But I'm not.

Oh, but wouldn't it be wonderful if I were?

Well, I spent a good minute imagining it just now, half hoping that when I opened my eyes it would all be there; the flickering firelight on the log walls, the wild yelps of the huskies outside, the cold glitter of the stars out my window and my snug little bed tucked into a dim corner and waiting to embrace me. But alas! It cannot be. And so, here I sit, as before, as always; instead of firelight, the seedy glow of the street lamps. Instead of starlight, the harsh glare of my 800 by 600 pixel monitor.

The snug little bed, though, is still here, gaping at me, unmade. And who knows? I may just awake to the sound of ten hungry huskies clamouring for breakfast.

21
Female
Canada
Student of English and German
X-Evo
Sleepy