Hebetude. Lassitude. They've all settled in at Chez Dean, and the animals and I are helpless to take up arms against them. We're all just rather lying about, shuffling from room to room only when absolutely necessary.
And yet, despite the torpor, I finished the other "beach" sock, wrapped up a Noro scarf I had also been working on at the beach, and finished Gentlemen and Players (which contained quite a twist, let me tell you.) I'll be casting on a dishcloth at some point today, and have already begun the "I" book: John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, which I began once, but did not finish.