In search of a patch of grass.
Backpack with water and shoes, blades on my feet, last year's shorts hanging too loosely from my hips showing turquoise "no one's going to be taking these off" ragged underwear.
A book. A pen. An apple.
Today I will not think of the future, I will only seek the sun that is already pouring through the window onto my bare back.
Today I will find a patch of grass and think of a slumbering Mr. Pyke, I will travel along the sunbeams and kiss each face that I have ever shared a connection with.
I see all these faces as bright as the day, displaced sattelites illuminating the dirty stones of the buildings.
Today I will not worry about the decision I have to make this week, I will not succumb to urgency, and I will ignore the preparations for leaving that I could be doing, the lists, the e-mails, the landlords and furniture and countless insistently fluttering papers.
Today I follow the sun, and your shining faces.