Button-Wronged Mind
A kind of Noachian condition has descended upon the city. Yesterday it never got lighter than twilight, and looking out the window again this morning brings nothing to mind so much as life at the bottom of a fishbowl, if the fish in residence were somehow chain-smokers. A metaphor of questionable value, I know, but I haven't had a lot of sleep.
Imogen invites more mixed metaphors -- in her footed pajamas she puts herself through a series of contortions that remind one of a gymnast inventing the idea of floor exercises for the very first time ("What if I just sort of, you know, rolled around on the mat and posed a bit? Could that be an event? I guess I could throw in some handsprings if it'd make everybody happy.") but punctuates her routines with explosive grunts that remind one more of Monica Seles returning serve. Every now and again she sits up and claps for herself. This doesn't so much remind me of any sport in particular, but demonstrates that she's definitely an American.
This is what comes of being up too late working on new projects on a Sunday night.