So, I was going to post up the following pic of my nose and write about the history of nose piercings in the Asian Subcontinent and how important my nose pin is to me (I was paying homage to all of my female ancestors and to the rich culture from which I come, on that warm winter day in Miami four years ago, as I sat before a skinny, thoroughly pierced and tattooed young man who held a very long and thin needle between his fingers at an establishment called The Moshpit).
But I'm not going to do it now because I'm already half asleep.
I'll save that for another time.
I spent most of the night sitting up in bed with Zanadune, alternating between knitting and reading George Orwell's "Why I Write" (5 rows of knitting followed by 10 pages of reading); at one point Aimee Mann's cover of "One" started playing on my Mac and it was just perfect. Because I was knitting and reading Orwell with my cat sleeping next to me and it wasn't lonely at all. It was quite wonderful.
Don't listen to the lies: one isn't the loneliest number that you'll ever do.
And now I sleep.