My knowledge of electricity is so poor that I can’t even tell you what’s gone wrong with ours, only that something has. A lightbulb upstairs burned bright for a moment, there was a popping sound, and all the lights went out. We still have electricity–plug-in lights work, computers are charging happily–but our house is dark and here I sit, on the couch, having hunted for the fuse box and failed. It’s just too dark to look for a fuse box. Kind of a catch-22, that. Are we horrible people if we leave it till morning? Don’t answer that.
What I can’t decide is if I should, in present circumstances, escape by having a run. Because here’s the problem: it’s also dark outside the house. Not much of an escape; but at least I could feel the night city air on my face and pretend I had a glowing house to come home to. Here the light from candles flickers and the orange glow of streetlamps patterns the curtains, forms blocks on the walls. It’s a strange in-between feeling. I’m almost too restless to sit still; almost to restless to move.