Through the looking glass

It rained today. I waited for it to pass. I wouldn't drive.

Difficult as it has become to find something that might compare, I picked up a book today. It is lonely up there, that's what it is. The air is thin. Not many have the dedication nor tenacity to persist. The new one I picked up is domestic, though in my way, I have been gradually veering away from the very idea. In fact, I didn't realize how far I had come until some perspective was added. Though I will continue to drift most willingly, I haven't disliked the book till now. It does not try, nor pretend to be any more than it is. But it only a mild drug, not a strong one. Not one that consumes the moments in which it unfolds.