There is something suddenly nice about that fact that I can look out into the distance from where I sit and can see the far sky above queens, long island, the atlantic. My view is someone else's sky, the clouds they see when they crane their neck upwards, a breeze still-not-quite-balmy, the sun thinking about thinking about setting.

There are small and few reasons to get angry and to be annoyed, maybe, but there are vastly many more reasons to sit and smile and be quietly elated. Sometimes lately I feel the need to remind myself of the necessity of tasting texture, of seeing the textural quality of day-to-day events, not the semantic signifieds of marked things-I-did-today.

What happened today? A slow ebb and flow. A hundred and three breezes came in my window. I tried to think about thinking about nothing on the train. Calm bike ride up broadway. Thoughts arrayed onto a page, the sense of a impending summer, and so on. Movement is only movement in relation to an absent. Everything is soil that accumulates in your geological strata, accumulation that accumulates, moments that solidify and become constituted as a richness.