The patch of sky above my patio. Sometimes there are stars visible.
It’s quiet. Well, not really.
The sounds have fallen into a steady hum.
I can see all eighteen stars above.
The patch of sky above my patio. Sometimes there are stars visible.
Last night I explored the city a bit at dusk. I like watching people and wandering the streets in search of la vie bohème. I found plenty of it, more than I expected for such an uppity city as Washington DC. While I am far too capitalistic, materialistic, and practicalistic to engage in such activities, their existence is satisfying—perhaps as solace that all the
“-listics” haven’t yet forced the world into the small confines of perfect societies.
Thoughts on the subway ride home can be summed up as a combination of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and a Béatrice Coron papercut:
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