I was in my friend's Volvo the other day. We were moving my new bed, which was too big for the back of the van, resulting in it sticking out windows and adopting a rather alarming shape most uncharacteristic of a mattress.
Inside said Volvo was a delightful book about tree houses. And not your regular plank-a-wood-and-two-nails tree house. Tree houses that inspire great people to do great things, simple people to do simple things, but most importantly, inspire the long forgotten imagination to dream.
It rained last night.
Out of nowhere, a downpour of the sky's pent up agitation.
Forced to move my books and candles inside, I read by candlelight until my stomach began to rumble.
Now, it's midday, and I'm swaying to Angus Stone, smoking a dwindling cigarette and watching two pigeons bathe in a small puddle. The sweet aroma of my chai tea mixes with sandlewood incense burning slowly on the barbecue.
Surprisingly, I am content.
At this moment in fleeting time, I wouldn't change a thing.
How many times in our life can we say that?