Bed isn't made; needles are crying.

I haven't knitted in four days.


My knitting bag goes everywhere with me, following my purse with a persistent optimism I thought only belonged to dogs. I don't have the heart to tell it, "not today."


My wheel sits idle. It accepts the dust that slowly settles on it, patient as the tree and maker that birthed it.


Bags of roving slouch together, wondering whether they'll ever be predrafted.


The brown sweater is locked in a holding cell, awaiting judgment. Any day now, it may find that there is not enough Noro to knit the sleeves. Conversely, it might get 3/4-length sleeves. If by some miracle, I find another skein of Silk Garden in the same color and lot, it will get a reprieve and receive full-length sleeves. Or, it may be sent to the frog pond (not likely, it has a good lawyer knitter on its case).


I've started drinking caffeine again.


And it isn't even tax season yet.






I fear I may be going insane insaner.