Thursday Afternoon Scenery

I'll give you folks a little imagery. I'm currently sitting sideways on my loft bed, feet dangling over the edge.
I'm listening to Modest Mouse's The World at Large, and the music is mingling (rather pleasantly, as a matter of fact,) with the incessant buzz of a lawnmower outside our open window.
I see it whiz by every now and then, doing impressive twists and turns across the grass.
Ally (my roommate) is folding laundry below me. She does it silently; stuffing t-shirts and jeans into drawers with a kind of pensive concentration. I typically listen to music when I do mundane tasks like folding laundry, but I think Ally just muses.
This is funny; another lawnmower (I'm not sure if that's what you'd call it-it's huge) has joined the aforementioned small, yellow one. The newcomer is bigger than a truck, and a gaudy red color that clashes against the bright lawn.
They've left now, taking sound with them.
"Hey Al," I begin suddenly, peering down at her. I cut myself off.
There's nothing to say, really. It's a Thursday afternoon, I have a paper to write, and I could just curl up and fall asleep in the mellow silence of the room.
Now Ally's scratching her nose by the door. I won't say pick, but that's what it looks like. She has the same faraway look in her eyes that she always has, and I wonder what she's thinking about. I can never bring myself to ask. It's not the kind of day for inquiries. Observations, maybe.
It's a 'just, but' type of day.
Just one minute more.
But it's useless to put much thought into anything.
Just sleep.
But not until I write this paper.
Just six days more of school.
But I can't think of that yet.
Just one more 'just, but' example.
But nothing else now.

I suppose I should find you a quote to round things off. I know you so look forward to them. Let's see...
Well, here's a poem for you. I'm not sure if it quite fits mood I'm going for; this poem always makes me think of standing alone in the middle of a vast desert. Not a pleasant feeling, that, but certainly vivid. Props to Percy Bysshe (pronounced like 'fish,' by the way) Shelley.

Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.