In the crest of the stretch

On days like this, I relive my college Saturdays. Got home past 3 last night and slept in, way in, so far in that I missed the morning.

A quiet pattern emerges: I clean the kitchen, I put my clothes away, I organize my bills. And finally, I sit on my bed, still in my robe, and the apartment is quiet.

There is nothing like quietness to bring out la nostalgie.

When the running stops, when I have more than five seconds to think, my conscious sinks into bigger thoughts. Like in Pilates when you hold a stretch; it feels good to hover in the challenge.

The longer I live (what kind of sentence beginning is this?), the more I ease into a pattern, one which becomes the story of someone's life. Strangely, this life is mine. I am well aware of the stakes in the choices I make, hardly a day goes by that I don't dwell on this, but the little plastic castle is still "a surprise everytime."

Another chapter in NIFW published last night. Happy reading.

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