Caleb has slowly morphed the little den that begins his wing into a proper office, though slightly less sterile and uh, venture-capitalistic than before. It's more rustic, more homey, with some big easy chairs and a heavy rustic wooden desk and bookshelves.
The lighting he redid as well and now it's so cozy it almost makes me want to do work for him, though I declined easily this morning when he asked if I would consider helping him with his year end and tax reconciliations.
I can't. Switchfoot's new album comes out in four more sleeps and in the meantime Lochlan bought me Nothing More's Stories We Tell Ourselves so I'm a little bu-
Bridget, I adore the fact that you eat, sleep and breathe your music. You can bring your airpods with you.
Numbers mess up the music. It only works with words.
I'm sorry?
I can't listen to music while working with numbers.
I didn't know this. I've always put on music for you-
I can't hear it.
But you can write and listen-
And sing along. While writing completely different thoughts.
So are you saying you're throwing me over for Nothing Less?
Nothing More. And yeah. We said this last year. No more taxes.
It's the only thing certain in life, Neamhchiontach.
No, that's death. Remember?