On The Cusp

As I sit here thinking of how to approach my latest daily masterpiece...it is 12:12 a.m. On the cusp of the morrow. That gray area between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. It's not yet the witching hour, but something is afoot in my dark basement lair. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that I have my office light on. Just because.

Something is behind me. I have no idea what it is, but it makes a slight rustling sound. It's highly possible that there is a silent cricket creeping about. I hate crickets. I've seen one the last two days, but it evades me. I have no qualms about crushing its exoskeleton. None whatsoever. If only I have the opportunity. Yes, it COULD be a cricket, tiptoeing with its six hairy legs through the quagmire of cardboard boxes and errant Devil's Playground bags that were used to cart home the tools of my once-career.

Or it could be the big black tall kitchen trash bag that I've got laying on a box beside my new rolly chair. I put empty Diet Coke bottles in there every night. I don't have a wastebasket to give it shape. So it could be slowly settling as gravity beckons.

It could even be a ceiling tile ready to collapse. Every now and then, we have a leak from the pipes in the big triangle tub above in the master bathroom. It's not the drip of water. I've heard that before. And I'm pretty sure you can't hear mold growing.

The only time I've heard something similar was when we had a millipede stomping its thousand feet across the floor through a Devil's Playground bag landscape. I had The Pony, then, to call for help. The Pony laying on his basement couch, playing games on his laptop, keeping me company separately. Now I'm alone. Farmer H would not come down from his slumber to investigate, even if I told him I thought there was an escaped convict hiding in the boxes piled in my office. "He'll find a way out," I'm sure Farmer H would tell me, all muffledy from behind the mask of his breather, "And if he doesn't, we have an umbrella policy in case he sues us."

Seriously. I don't know what this is. Every time I stop typing and turn around, it stops. Almost as if it is a thinking being...

I think now might be a good time to wrap things up and go sit in my OPC (Old People Chair).