Reading “Peasants” by Anton Chekhov in winter days:
“On the floor a white cat was rubbing itself against the oven fork.
<Puss, puss!> Sasha called to her. <Puss!>
<She can’t hear,> said the little girl; <she has gone deaf.>
<How is that?>
<Oh, she was bitten.>
Nikolay and Olga realized from the first glance what life was like here, (…).”
I am lucky that I do not live in Chekhov’s time.
My mistress is reading the novel by Haruki Murakami and all of a sudden, a female cat appears in his work, just like in Chekhov’s but much happier.
After reading spending time outdoors.
I am outdoors.
Burning wood in the stove.