But at least the ceiling's very pretty

I wonder if I can use the fact that I had to be ready at eight o'clock this morning for the pest control people to come and look around my apartment for potential mice—as of this post, no one has yet arrived; that includes mice—as leverage for my landlords to spot me a cat.

(Cut for further Jacques Brel. I am too tired for anything original.)
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And all we know for sure amidst this fading light

The pest control people never arrived. With the exception of half an hour when I went out for lunch, I was here in my apartment until six o'clock, and no one knocked on my door. The only phone calls I got were from the Connecticut police, who are either having a fundraiser or I owe them money. I could have been in the library all day. I am not thrilled.

Better news. My poem "Postscripts from the Red Sea" was accepted by Goblin Fruit, so now I have no excuse not to record at least one poem this fall. Also my contributor's copies of City Slab #9 arrived in the mail yesterday, and the reprint of "Nights with Belilah" is accompanied by a very nice illustration; it has become a sleek and glossy magazine, and I can be amused that I remember when it was black-and-white. And last night I was finally able to work on the story that ate my brain in late summer, so maybe that will find its end one of these days. That sounded slightly more fatal than I meant it to. I now own the Decemberists' The Crane Wife. I think I'm out of better news.

At least I sleep well to rain. I'm going to bed.