It's all the sun's
fault, really. It insists on shining, high-contrast as a kid's painting against
the shocking blue sky. That nuclear orb forces me to spend a Sunday afternoon
paying homage to it. Letting its reflected glory refract off artificial salt water
and bronze me. It gets hard in August to find a reason not to.
Inside, more dust
than I am comfortable with collects in those corners of the world you ignore
until the sun hits at that unflattering angle. Any number of projects go
neglected. There are pages to parse, pages to fill. There is always another
load of laundry, always another decoration to secure, even another prestige arc
to binge on. But so little of it is portable enough to linger on our deck with
us.
If it goes undone,
blame the sun. I would say it forces my obedience but who am I kidding? I am a
willing acolyte, dreading the day when I finally have to go indoors.
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