Seated Scribe, Gentile Bellini, c. 1480

Ah!

Caught napping!

Ha ha! Yes. I fell asleep.

The morning is gray, no shadows, the fog is thick. There's a chill: things and the ground are wet, and for the first time this season the doors are closed to keep the chill from the sea off the dog's back and my bare legs. The hood is up on my sweatshirt, I feel monkish. Sounds are blanketed under the clouds and the yaking of the ravens and gulls and wild parrots in the magnolia behind the lattice becomes intimate to me, like an audience murmuring before the composer raises his baton.

But I will wake up now, make tea, stream some music and work till Santino brings lunch.

Nothing too loud.