rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The problem with big, fluffy white clouds is that I get caught up in them, and then get nothing done all day. My thoughts are as vaporous as these transient fogs with which they have been engaged. The paper lies unread, the leaves unraked, and all I have to show for the squandered afternoon is a feeling of great contentment. Ben Franklin must be spinning in his grave. I think I'll reward myself with some tea and a cookie or two. A non-job well done!

The branch I heard falling last night turned out not to be from an oak, but a pine. It brushed through the foliage of an adjacent oak on its way down. It wasn't as large as it sounded, either, though it did manage to splay an unfortunate rhododendron bush. I saw the dead branch this morning, black and wet in the gray light. looking like a bit of three-dimensional calligraphy meant to convey some message, but undecipherable. For some reason, it made me melancholy. Later, I dreamed of old brick houses falling into decay, and of looking for something I couldn't identify and couldn't find. No wonder I wanted to do nothing all afternoon but watch the sunlit clouds drift aimlessly above the cheerful green day.

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