A pagan - in content, sometimes contempt. Yet surrendering to the superstitious whims of dreams.

Sundays are best suited for afternoon naps. Particularly pluvial dreary ones. The wind feuded with trees outside, ocassionally whistling through gaps in the window. Between checking on the dog and windows, there were dreams. A busy beach, and once again, the tide was high and waves swept far onto the sand. Magenta flowers - bougainvillea;frangipanni? We ran, and amidst all the madness, there was a plexus of other competing feelings (quite real): relief - of having that moment; choler - that it took so long; want - of an honest, puerile type.

I thought of flying somwhere (else) today. Peering past the spiked grills, catching the sound of hail on a tin roof. Rice-paper thin tolerance for meretricious pleasantries. Longing for another sunset where dune seeps into teal, and the moon is but a sculpted arc.