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The dishes need to be washed.

The laundry, washed and dried.

The mail needs to be retrieved, opened, assessed, and – invariably – thrown away.

An email needs to be sent to a to a relative, to a friend.

An order cancelled, an order made.

The accounts need to be checked and adjusted and checked again, with as little disappointment as possible.

The carpet needs to be vacuumed.

The shelves need to be dusted.

A batch of cookies need to be made for no other reason than that the decision was made earlier in the week.  They serve no real purpose.

And the dishes will need to be washed again.

The homespun pedicure needs to be touched up, though the open toe shoes are almost never worn.  Especially this time of year.

The laundry needs be folded.

The houseplants need to be watered.  One needs to be replanted, lest its roots be left to strangle.  Eventually.

That spot on the floor will need to be vacuumed again.

The laundry needs to be put away.

The bathroom needs to be scrubbed.

Things need to be accomplished.

And somewhere in there, somewhere in the madness of the list, there needs to be time.

There needs to be time for her to think and create.  Time to absorb and exude all that the list is meant to enhance.  Or facilitate.

And yet, all the time there is is readily eaten by the list.

Realizing this, she struck a match.

And burnt it.