Subjective Reality

I was Saturday Staff at the museum and one of Pegi's cute Cirque girls at the desk. Very few guests, holiday weekend. She sent messages on a small hand-held device and listened to music quietly; I read, upstairs, and tried to eat pistachios slowly, a zen exercise I've been perfecting. The day was moving slowly, from Megan's point of view, she was bored, the two or three times I went downstairs, barely able to contain herself. Sitting upstairs, reading a good book, in an air-conditioned space, in a comfortable chair, drifting into thoughtful reveries, time, for me, was moving way to fast. Drove home slowly, a menace to traffic, considering different perspectives. Grilled a small strip steak, standing there the entire time, with a walking stick, tapping the dog on the nose. Gold and orange in the west through thick trees. Nothing to be ashamed of, uncalled tears coursing my cheeks, it's just a beautiful sunset. The horseradish jelly is very good on beef, I'd made a pasta salad, some of Carma's honey bread. It was a great meal, I Iingered, because the colors were so great out the west windows. Fucking light, man, will be the death of me. I follow it anywhere. Cogent and germane. When I went to sleep, the sun set in the west. This is only a belief, not something concrete. If your guy saw my guy see something wrong, incorrectly; I'm willing to listen to reason, nothing is what it seems.