This morning the first tendrils of Winter were knocking
gently on my window.
“Go away, Winter, we don’t want any,” I said. It did not
listen.
The night before had been a bowler’d affair, helping theatre
patrons listen to stories on a tablet that informed their viewing of the
theatre to be seen. As for the show? If I don’t think too deeply, I like it.
Leaving the stage behind us my ears told me that in no
uncertain terms should I be leaving them naked. I apologized for their pink embarrassment
and continued with my journey.
What else? I must find a place to type that is not next to a
sleeping person. It is obnoxious. I must also soon make some eggs.
Eggs are, after all, the promise of the springtime after
winter has come.
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