What is my place in all this?
Books, trees, sunlight, puddles of rain. . . together, alone.
What patterns are there? What opportunities, what hopes.
I thought I had some answers, I had none.
Now I can see the blossom on the tree outside my window, a few gulls circling lazily above. Cars pass several stories below.
Wind pushes the clouds hurriedly across the sky, white blots on the blue. I type.
There is dust on my windowsill. This is better than nothing.