All I Ask Is Four White Horses Follow.

I'd like to spend the day laying out beneath the sun, falling in and out of sleep, lightly lingering in dreams. I'd like to watch the clouds from atop Federal Hill, seeing them through the shaking trees. I'd like to breath and inhale the wind, crisp and brisk and steady. I'd like to read Rimbaud, with the newly fallen leaves blowing around me. I'd like to kick through piles of crackling leaves, feel the sun on my back. Instead, I must go to the Bistro and I must care entirely too much about things I don't really care about at all.

I am watching from my window, the sun strike the bright white windows on the building across the street. Neko Case is singing in my ears. I am preparing myself for all the hours I will waste working, wishing I wasn't. I am counting down the final hour, looking nervously each minute.

I dreamed of weird things last night. They bumped awkwardly around my head and then fell out instantly upon waking. I can't seem to stretch them out from anywhere in my memory. The vague recollection of something mundane is slighty scattered across my efforts to remember. And I briefly recall finding them unworthy of recollection; perhaps that's why they've faded so.