My December, two thousand and eight.

The days blend together sleepily between solitary late breakfasts and compliments in the work place.

You are a Decemberist. In the winter things change, but not too quickly.

At work, new furniture has been purchased in a colour scheme reminiscent of the IKEA furniture that was all you could afford to put in you're home. It's still all you can afford.

But as you remind the cashier in the smoke shop, things could be worse. You are thankful when someone else cooks you dinner. You only drink when you can sleep in, and every morning you wake up uncharacteristically well rested. It's about time.

So you take the phone off the hook, put the plane ticket on the table and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is very pretty, in its own way.