It is Sunday, winged by space before and after, this body-of-the-butterfly day, this solid core, this anchor. It is as if I had all the time in the world. And so I stay and stay, as the heat creeps up to the sill. There is a dryness about this place, a clattering of blocks and tiles, running my fingers through. Am I bold enough to enjoy this minutia? Indeed I am. Let no unnecessary structure stand. Be rigorous in your rollcalling. You there, state your purpose.
Telling: Streams & Logs