Stories In Bed

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Is anyone else disturbed when they click on the "new web-blog" to start a new post and instead of their nice black and orange background, one is forced to write in a harsh white environment? I would be much more comfortable if the page xanga used for weblog entry displayed the same colors as my site.
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I want to write a story this summer. It will be as long or short as I feel necessary, but I hope for a long short story. A novel-light, if you will.

The idea came to me in bed, where all my best thinking takes place. If I could write with my head pressing upon a soft down pillow, eyes closed, and covers heating my curled body, I would. The problem is obvious. In such a relaxed setting, I would fall asleep, and for every nap perhaps a sentence or two would be written. I also would write well in the shower, but the problem of electricity, water, and me combine to make the option less appealing. However, in bed, I construct much of the plot for my as of yet unwritten stories.

The story centers on a character, male or female though I will probably make it male, who has always lived in the shadow of a mountain or cliff. He was raised and lived in a small village near by this foreboding cliff. As he progresses in age, the man feels a draw to the mountain and as a final adventure before retirement or senility, the man decides to backpack around the base of the cliff. To his surprise, the man finds a stair carved from the stone of the cliff, and he climbs. The cliff is tall, so tall its peak or top is constantly shrouded in clouds, so the man is wasted when he gets to the top. At the top, the man finds a modern home unlike those in the village inhabited by another man who could be mistaken for his twin. His twin identifies himself as Death, or the mans one personal Death. Death explains to a shocked old man how when a life is born so too is born a death. At this point, the two go talk in front of the fire place.

I haven't decided if the two will talk first and then Death will introduce himself, or the opposite, but that is the premise. The story will try to contain some quality dialogue and philosophical musings, but it will take me where it wants to go, philosophy or not.
Actually, the story will say, "You don't have the will or patience to write me, do you?"
I sadly respond, "I doubt it."
Thus sayith the story, "A pity. In that case, I don't want to go anywhere." And so the story, having spoken with Death, dies.

But for those whose hopes keep company with that elevating drug marijuana, I will try my best. Nirvana is not far off. Cheers.

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Tomorrow, my brother and I are scraping, smoothing, and applying the proverbial elbow grease to some drywall so some washed up and washed out painters can do their jobs. I hate housework, and this comes close. But I need the spending money, since I don't see a dime of the money I make moving pianos. My father takes it all to combat my ever increasing debt to him. Sigh.
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