Some nights ago I was falling asleep on the floor (I sometimes do, mostly for reasons of Insomnia) in a comfortable nest of blankets when I noticed a heartbeat under the pillow.
I lifted my head up, and it was gone. I could only hear it with my head to the floor.
The floor was also quite warm, and occasionally gurgled very softly. I figured that the radiator pipes were running right underneath me.
Outside was some weather. Gusts of wind, sheets of rain.
"Thanks for looking after me, house," I thought. "I wouldn't know what to do without you."
I thought about how I've been trying to be completely grown-up and disciplined since I moved in, because that seemed to be required now that I rent a proper house to live in. "It's been awful," I thought. "It's actually been really awful. I hate waking up in the morning thinking about how much I need to draw exactly rather than what I want to draw. I've stopped making things for fun, and ever since I've actually got less work done. This is stupid, house."
The house's heartbeat went on calmly. "I'm glad we talked about it," I thought.
Then the beat changed, and I realised it was my neighbours working on their music... they soundproofed their garage, but the rhythm still carried through the floor.
I was suddenly very happy, thinking that I live next to people who make things at night.
The next day I slept late, and since then I've started crocheting animals again instead of counting comic panels in the evening and calculating whether I'm on track or not. I'm always kind of on track anyway.