There is a poetry club happening in my kitchen, spontaneously, because that's the way these things happen. Just hours ago, there had been a pile of laundry on my kitchen table.
Here, in the living room, I sit, reading other people's blogs on my phone (while sitting next to the laptop). Remix is chewing on a Nylabone while lying on a partially destroyed old comforter in the corner.
There's no point to this. That's just what's happening.