After a jaunt to the farmers market and dabbling with relaxation via countless cups of coffee on a cafe patio, entranced with the nuanced defence of literature and personal integrity of "Why Orwell Matters" and then taking a significant role in ingesting a loaf of bread in one meal, I now sit and succumb to my innate need to attempt photosynthesis. The sun basks forever, finite forever, and as the sun pounds on my flesh, I pound on the keys.
Work has taken over as the important aspect of days. Planning, studying, writing lessons - the list goes on - has detracted from the veritable grandeur of montane and oceanic freedom that persists in my (new) hometown. I "see" the mountains, I "think" of the oceans, but I for now touch neither. I touch books, pens, stacks of marking and memories. Memories, of course, are the chordate-like structure that binds a life together. May all lives be bound tightly with a ferociously dense memory of happiness.
That is all. Happy days, clear skies.
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