There’s a strut in my walk I’ve found for the first time in five weeks, and I’ve left all rationality behind in math books when I decide to walk down eight floors just to watch the sun shimmer over the lake and the fields vanish behind the compound wall, enclosing pink bougainvillea. The red is muted as the afternoon dampens into evening and the jazz doesn’t seem half as bad while the sun is still up.

The car smells of something between coffee and cigarettes but I won’t ask any questions.


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