(no subject)

[hobozeller]

I was staring out my window in the attic today, for an amount of time I don't think I ever will, or will ever want to, know. I opened the window after it was suffieciently dark for the skylights to do nothing, and the richest, most aloof, temptous aroma wafted through. I was holding a borrowed book in my arms that smelled like any good book does, and the air was perfumed with a smell not unlike every delight that summer has to offer. Ripened honeysuckle, burning fires, burnt tortillas, impending water, and the first warm breeze (mixed as it was with the cool) I've felt this year. My hair still smelled like incense, and it floated against my face in a way that made the room feel like a cavernous fantasy i had only begun to explore.
The experience had the effect of demanding vividity, but encouraging smooth contemplation.
I felt the sweet forgetfullness and sheer lack of responsibility for anyone but yourself that can only come fromm innocent childhood, but without losing the feeling of age and thought that I've accumulated over many long hours of learning. I was dreaming without thinking about what made it impossible again, and loving what was in the scope of my vision and neither caring nor knowing what lay behind me. I forgot everything without wanting to find it. It would have been perfectly fine for the window to come swishing down like a guillotine right then.

I truly, honestly, wish you were there with me.