Not circling the drain or the airport, but in a holding pattern; I feel like I am waiting, in limbo. I am at the gate, pre-boarding but I don’t have a destination.
It’s not bad. Drifting. It’s warm and comfortable. But directionless. The weeks go by and I read my books, sweep up the courtyard, go to bed early and then sleep late.
It is summertime living. Easy. Like everyday is Sunday morning.
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