I’m not at home. I’m somewhere else that is not home. It’s Sunday, and there isn’t anything outside, and I’m not scared or frightened or panicked by this thought. I’m typing a blog entry. It’s Sunday. It’s Sunday, and I’m not at home and everything outside could just be an infinity of white or something, and I’d be okay with that. There is some bean dip in a gigantic metal refrigerator downstairs.