Sometimes

Sometimes you just want to preserve moments. They'll never be again, and if you look at them many years from now you'll be amazed.

So I preserve this moment in time, what I am looking at on Sunday morning, April 12, 2009 at 8:21 a.m. with a glass of red wine, a tiny clock ticking on the windowsill, a sleeping Brigitte, a melancholy I can't quite parse, the sun threatening to shine against bare winter trees who've been fooled too often and are going back into hibernation, leaving a population of disgruntled squirrels, and the whole rest of my life in front of me.

Note to self: red wine + zopiclone =

Umm, time to retire with book. Hope for three or more pages.