It’s as if what we call “time” has shifted, shuffled sideways into a cloud and emerged as light. A lightness of being it is, I think.
I’m covered in mail and especially packages and every bump, every turn causes them to shift and shuffle also. There is no dignified way to deal with it except to turn around, crawl back a bit into the cave behind me and shove them, tossing a few as well.
Yet . . . I am ahead on time and it is easy and I’m paid to be off tomorrow because of the death of a president and his time has shifted, shuffled also.
It is glorious, truly.
I hope you can feel it too . . .
“Just now, my view from Paradise Drive. I cannot possibly make this up.” Copyright 2018 Timothy Waugh