Three weather- and traffic-perfect days in a row.
The sky’s been perpetually blue, the breezes have been gratifyingly crisp, and the streets—ah, the streets!—the streets have remained shockingly bare.
It’s almost enough to make one believe in the myth of a new year.
The perfection of the days makes it difficult to write though. The mind wanders, the eyes shut, thoughts spiral endlessly around themselves, and everything (from the tinkle of the wind chimes to the twittering of the birds) conspires to induce a dense and inarticulate fog.
It’s the kind of perfection, in short, that invites one to just be.