March 12th, 2003 - 12:14 p.m.

A muted comfort.

The sky is an exhausted shade of over washed grey, the air cold, clinging, like wet laundry.

In here, there is quiet tempered waiting. The mild sounds of toes on floor boards and the shuffle of thought.

A day for fireplaces, the watching of surf against rock, and the building of forts out of feathery blankets. For well enunciated recitings of old texts, the reader backlit, and the listener well suspended upon pillows.

A time for fingertips to explore sleep soft skin, and to listen to sighs of contentment.

N.

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