I love my home, especially I think, because I cannot really afford to live in it. I am sitting here in the living room. Through the window I can see some trees blowing around, and a gray sky, the light in here is warm yellow, on the floor the dog is twitching in her sleep. I am on the couch, and have been since the day began. There is a stack of books to my right, and a small teak drinks table holding a variety of cracked tumbled with words from literary masterworks engraved on their sides to the left.

It's a Saturday evening, I am on way out to buy ricotta on credit, for a lasagna I'll be making later this evening. I haven't got much debt in comparison to others, but on an afternoon when I do no work, I can feel small expenditures piling up like snowdrifts around the front door, miniscule at first until one morning, the only way out is to shovel or to burn.

I would perhaps make a grab for the shovel, but in my heart of hearts I'd wish to strike a match.

*note: this is an opening line. I am not really in crisis.