In a way, I miss my futon.

As mentioned previously, I am back in my bedroom, sleeping on the queen size bed I bought in 1984. I paid a lot of money for it, but it was well-spent: twenty-five years later, the mattress and springs are like new.

But in a way, I miss the ratty futon upon which I had slept for two or three years before abandoning it a few days ago. It was in awful shape, with a torn and shredded cover partially covered by a torn and shredded bedsheet. It was frequently littered with crumbs, used tissues and paperback books. It looked like something you'd expect to find in a Symbionese Liberation Army safe house forty or so years ago.

And it was in the dining room, separated from the living room by a wooden folding screen. I'd wrap up in a blanket, unless it was very very warm. Beasley and Smudge would sleep there with me, when they were still here. (And I think about them every day.)

Now I'm back in my very nice queen-sized bed, in my newly-plastered and freshly-painted bedroom. And there's plenty of room here for Rollo and Bailey.

But part of me misses the futon. Part of me likes the clutter, the crumbs, the worn and ripped fabric. I've had some amateur therapists tell me I surround myself with clutter to keep other people away. I suppose that could be true.