This morning, woke up to find that the front door to our apartment was wide open. That's happened a few times. Door doesn't shut properly, and we don't notice until it's a bit too noisy in the hall or some such in the AM.
But now we've got the bolt in, so no chance of any opportunistic booty snatchers invading.
I finished Killing Commendatore last night. The Murakami formula in many respects, but still wonderfully enjoyable.
I used to think that you could write a novel about anything. Really. But now I don't really believe that at all. I see the range of evocative novels actually being quite thin. Maybe it's a failure of imagination on my part, or of taste. You've got to get your protagonist alone. Kill off their parents, divorce them from their spouse, sequester them away in a foreign land. Anything that will make their interior life fulminate and fester into something interesting, and open avenues to explore. And that's just the first thing.
Today I washed the dishes in the sink and unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, did two loads of laundry, went to the gym, meditated, and got a solid workday in. So I'm riding the motivational wave until it crashes.