I wouldn't mind being in San Francisco, feeling a stronger breeze, or perhaps nosing about one or another of my old haunts in Pasadena or Santa Monica. But who would feed the cats? Who would keep up with the various tasks the place demands? So here I am, making do with the rustling leaves and the scent of dry grass the breeze carries from the nearby fields. I imagine that the cats look grateful for the food I just gave them, but I could be wrong.
It's really a wonder I haven't yet gone crazy from being in this place.