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May 3, 2013

It’s that kind of day where you well gently intermittently in your own pointless pinprick blues and nobody is near you, and nobody could be. It’s the kind of day that is made far more of spirit than body, a day for steeping in the past and wallowing in the present, heart strings tugging painfully toward the future. It’s the kind of day where everything that is or was or will be is quietly yet outstandingly beautiful; a stone on a mountaintop, an act of light from a dark life, every leaf on every tree that I can see for miles. All of existence seems saturated to its deepest tones, sunlight singing off it in living color. This is a day for a truck on a curving slash between two forests, for iced tea and goldenboy rock. I guess the river is calling already.

It’s that kind of day when the world of faraway is keening softly for you, faraway with more trees and grass than you could ever use up in an afternoon of sundays, and the city and its streets start to look like the set of Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.

It’s that kind of day where bigger is better, and less is more. I guess the river is calling.

faraway

I am

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