The Golden Weasel, uncharacteristically, grows weary of drawing and drifts over to the couch. She picks up a book and begins reading—and, characteristically, it's aloud. Which is fine, delightful, even; I'm going to be very sad when I one day realize she doesn't do that anymore.
I'm only dimly aware of her voice chirping away in the background, as I'm working on Important Things, and as I'm characteristically much closer to the speakers currently pumping out music at an uncharacteristically reasonable volume.
Max, uncharacteristically home from college but characteristically on her computer, IMs me from nine feet away.
what're we listening to? bc i'm really enjoying the contrast we've got going here between the music and the story we're being read.
I pause and listen.
This is what we're being read:
And this is what we're listening to:
Talk about worlds colliding or, perhaps, two great tastes that taste great together.