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Sunday... the day of sleepwalking. Always, though the religious angle has long since lost its sway, there is something so final and sedate about the last day of the week. Or the first, depending upon how you look at it. I can never seem to get a burning focus on anything. Small, inconsequential things manage to get done... but, like today, nothing reaches closure. Concentration is fleeting. The air pressure compounds, dragging momentum to a crawl. So, what the fuck. Way too much motorsports going on. Le Mans. Grand Pr1x of Canada. Potatoesque, I lounged in the bask of cathode rays. Straightening curves, vicariously. Lots cheaper, that way. Plotting. Watching herons fly overhead. Making clean places on the Vespa. Looking for signs of storms on the horizon. Weathering a small one, when a friend drops by for the first time in a month (I see, now... the problem is jealousy). Photos in the last light of day. Freedom, tomorrow. And the next day. Might I have a bit more sun, please? |
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