There's nine minutes left of work, and I'm anxious to run from the building. A nap. A walk. A kiss. A daydream full on the lips of a far-away (though closer than ever) sun.
This season's almost over--annually and personally, and I feel guilty for the mourning that will not come.
Spring and a new city.
I think of Paris. The Impressionists. And tulips bent, drinking wind.