The morning comes on fast. I shower: my arms itch. I have a routine. I crack my eyes and make a few monster noises to usher in the day. I get up and open the front door. Light and air chase away any lingering whispers of sleep. I start my coffee, which is a ritual unto itself. I shower while it percolates. I turn on the radio, and if it's not too depressing I listen to NPR. Some days are too lovely to ruin with thoughts of Iraq, Israel, Airplanes, Hezbollah, and Bush's Politics, I listen to an Opera.
Today is an Opera day. Mozart rings through the open rooms of my small house. A light wind bushes my bare flesh, it is late summer. I have a terrible feeling that this country does not support people in their quest to discover pleasure. To live with no joy or celebration of life. What a shame. Pleasure can be had in minutiae. A ripe mango piled on a platter. The deep orange of the fruit brilliant against the deep cobalt of antique porcelain. It is sunset I eat in the morning.
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