It is strange how the unfamiliar bends into normalcy: the expectation to wipe raindrops off of a bicycle seat (what were sleeves for before); heaps of bacon; the constancy of green and grey.
I go through stages here, of complete distraction--perhaps because I am in awe of my satisfaction with this place, this new life of mine; of absorption in my course topic; of fantasizing about a time (before?) (still to come?).
I am glad, though. I am glad that I am used to the rain. That small pubs have become comfortable. That I am sure of certain, stubborn, realities.
So what if these are mostly paper dreams? Most of mine are, anyways, written, raw, revered be me alone.
