A desert sun may be as unforgiving as a pregnant girl’s Baptist father, but give me this rocking chair and a six pack of New Castle and I can bake under its glow without needing any solar approval. No, a sun god is no trifling matter, but as much as he’s a burning big cheese, he doesn’t match the sheer will of a Pennsylvanian-at-large with a heavy thirst for taking it easy under the unimposing weight of a Thursday afternoon. With every hour the shadows threaten to grow another inch and I can’t be bothered to blame them.
I’ve found myself a stitch in time that isn’t concerned with it’s proximity to the threadline anymore than it’s concerned to to push forward. Jobs don’t always want to be finished as much as they just want to be worked, and I, for one, am learning to take the getting with the there.