Sunday, February 8

sweet time

for the first time this year the air smells like spring. country music fills the starbucks as we sit in a pleasant little suburb of the country music capital of the world. my spirit is still. as i become engrossed in people watching, considering the decline of the youth of America, she smiles at me, knowing full-well what i am doing i am sure, and showing her contentment with this peaceful moment we have, between bouts with streaming traffic and indecision.

one heartbeat.

one pulse.

the leaves on the trees remind me of all the times my brother and i watched thumbelina.

last night: owls, cranberry juice, the roaring 20s and safari hats will always remind me of last night. i always feel like i am entering a different world. a world where lives are lived so very differently than my own . where not only interests, but in fact all livelihood rests in music. miss jill he called me. he reminds me of her. i like him. i like that everyone in his world respects him, feels indebted to him. i love that he is so passionate about what he does because i see that in her too. i love seeing how much they both love music, but the ways they are different in loving it. i just love observing siblings. i miss mine.

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