my fingers are cold

From inside my sleepin bag tucked tidily into the whale bus listening to the train and beth orton. Tula cuddled on my legs atop my quilt made by jakes mom. With it's bright colors visible even in my dark cave I call home. It's cold in here and the condensation on my windows hide the stars that would be seen if not for my curtains, stars that only insinuate how much the temp will drop tonight without the clouds to gently cuddle a touch of extra warmth down near the surface where crazy girls and kitties bed down in whale buses.
What a beautiful day. From it's starry AM conception and violently lit sunrise to temper tantrum rain pours, all best experienced and absorbed from outside of windows and inside of gortex.
What am I doing???
What the hell am I doing living in a broken down motorhome? When I can easily afford warmth and protection and comfort and ease? In a life that's hard enough, leave it to me to go and make it harder. Based on ideals, possibility, and adventure... This ride has become more a social experiment, both on those around me (unwittingly though it is) and myself (knowingly even). And a good one so far. Certainly it has it's moments, but those moments exist on both sides of the coin, visible on both ends of the spectrum, with plenty to see in between. To bed I already am, and to sleep I must. May interesting dreams find me this chilly kitty cuddled evening.