I’m sitting on the couch in my underbritches. It’s 1 o’clock in the morning. Everyone is asleep but me. My dog snores, old, creaky, she shifts position and snores again. I like walking around the house in my underbritches at night. It’s a freedom thing.

Because I like the way my legs feel when I walk on them naked. I like the way the ceiling fan feels on my bare behind when I’m lying on the couch typing. I like it when my boobs aren’t strapped to my chest with elastic and hooks. I wear glasses at night after I take my contacts out. I like resting my eyes from them.

It’s a freedom thing. I like to read at night, but not about dragons or love or murder mysteries. I like to read about real people and real things. Things that happened today, perhaps in parts of the world I only know about from books and television. Things that other people are doing with their lives, things they have sacrificed, things they have stolen, things they have given.

I like to read about weather and nature and feel my smallness and weakness under the unyielding force of Earth’s desire. Perhaps I will read about scientific things and marvel at the pulsating gray matter of those who understand them. My dog shifts again. I curl one leg underneath me. My ass is cold. My knee throbs. But it always does. Sweet familiarity of a failing body.

I roll one foot in a circle and hear my ankle pop, pop, pop, crack. Apparently, China is reporting a 30% increase in tax revenues. A wildfire continues to burn in Harnett County. That’s right next door. Perhaps it will burn a path to my door. Oh, and do you know what a hydrothermal worm looks like when viewed under an electron microscope? It looks like this. My knee throbs.

Snore and a shift. I uncurl my leg from underneath me, stretch, curl the other one. Moth on my keyboard. Airplane overhead. A spark in the dark. I decide. I shall not wait patiently for that wildfire. I shall become an arsonist.