(no subject)
It's easy to let myself forget that there are such things as perfect winter Sundays, where it is beautiful to wake up at noon under warm down; to make coffee and toast in a bright kitchen; to talk to friends that are far away in Cairoland; to make soup for lunch and not leave the house; and to read Virginia Woolf by a window. It's easy to forget that there are days that are, in a word, enough.