If I could be a wealthy retiree, dining on the finest Euro foods, I would be so happy

Quiet wake up, late shower.

Emailing is an exacting mistress, as is pulling together the random threads of correspondence.  It's worked out.  I'm responsible.

Rush to Harvard for impromptu breakfast with Taylor and dear Biderman.  Dark chocolate, hot.  Croissant for dipping.  Jam for tang.  Decadence never tasted so good, and I already yearn for more.  Return visit soon.

Diet Coke, errands, shipping off a birthday package.

BEACH DAY.

BEACHDAYBEACHDAYBEACHDAY.

Third one in a week.  I love the sand.  I love the taste of salt, the wind, the basking in blue.

Sandcastles from dirt that's a geological wonder, large grains with crushed white and purple shards, shells pulverized by time and seamlessly integrated.  It's the landscape.  It's nature.  It's beautiful.

White sand next to stenchy river.

Fighting waves with wild abandon, challenging them, screaming as salt streams overhead.

Running, resting, leaving late.

All-carb dinner.

Stars.

Home.