There was a bit of pride in Second Life. A complete breakdown on my internet has made it almost impossible to log in.

But now it was a little while and the music is just so damn good. Hopefully it will be fiber next year so I can be with much more. Usually a highlight of the year in SL.

I sit in the shadow. The garden is swimming in the sun and the cat had gone to bed in the coolest part of the greenhouse. A cold gin and tonic had sat well but it's only 11 o'clock and it feels too early even for a day like this. Summer and sun is a longing when the snow falls outside and you have forgotten what it is like when the heat makes all the work in the sun unthinkable.

The cat looks up with a sleepy eye. She lies flat in her chair and a paw hangs quietly down probably because it is cooler so or is it a mark of how hot it is. She's good at showing what she thinks in a passive aggressive way. Once she's checked where I am, she turns around and goes back to sleep. She waits for the evening which is cooler and makes it advisable to go exploring among bushes and thickets.

I'll take a picture of her while she sleeps. I don't want to get too close and wake her up when she sleeps so well. She usually sleeps well and it always surprises me when she has managed to take over my entire bed. She lies in the middle. As befits a beautiful lady and I have in my sleep moved out on an edge where I balance while Your Majesty quietly sleeps on completely untouched. There's not much I can decide. The cat has long since seen through all my attempts to take command and usually only makes a min of mild indulgence when I pathetically try to take control of my life. She knows she's in charge and I'm her obedient servant.

Luckily, it's starting to blow up now. The warmth folds slightly for the comfortable breeze. I think it's time for lunch. I feel for coffee and sandwiches. The cat sleeps quietly. She knows that when she is ready for something good, just jam a little and I will bring goodies and a little kel. What else would I be good for?

It was a sad grey morning. The coffee cup on the right left a still cloud of steam. The sky was above the treetops. Writing this morning felt like walking in waist-high water. Victorious and immobile.

The text rarely flows as you wish. But some days nothing moves. The forest is beautiful, but there is no one there. The wind is still and not a leaf creates anything. It is empty and no one is home.

Yesterday evening had also given nothing more than a headache that, of course, as usual, will not subside until half the day has passed. The wine was turned into brandy and cigars. The conversation had become more hostile until it finally became indifferent and incoherent. Nothing important was said and the headache could just as well be due to the unsaid as the booze.

In any case, it wasn't the best of mornings. Nothing was written and my eyes wandered to the window and the boring weather outside.