...and then days where nothing is dull. Every object is a work of art. Even my torn leather boots are vehicles for all the scars of entropy telling the story of their lives. The puddle water, absorbed in to their flesh. Dust and oil, sweat and soil. Unlaced at home, my feet are free. Moist and warm my socks cool in the evening air. Fragrant and rude, like small beery pubs or damp dogs, drying by the fire.
The good fortune I have had in finding work that feels both worthwhile and fun. I very well may have found my way back home.
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