It's as simple as that—a spot of peace and reflection. The kind that is endlessly pursued mentally, that is held revered as an, "oh, that would be fucking lovely-ness; one day, it will be possible, perhaps, I suppose...". Collection and calm, the conscious basking in the fact that it is collection and calm. More specifically (in this blog? hardly!): sitting on the windowsill (old buildings/Europe definitely gets an extra point for that—broad enough to be a very non-corporate-café "third place"...or is that place 1.5?...a perch or position, from which you can survey both the adjoining room (the room as a part of the window, not the other way around) and the greater outside), having woken up at leisure, not opened this glowing screen first-off and sunk into the murky depths of the nets of inter, and taken a book as a windowsill companion. Emphasizing the word companion as well—not in the nature of something, which demands your attention, towards which your focus must be directed under obligation or threat of conviction; but rather something, from which your direct concentration may wander from time to time, rising and flitting through the leafing greenery of mid-lehekuu (May), only to alight once more upon the non-offended words at will. On either side of the windowsill is even a different temperature, a different level of light. In any case, it's all within reach. Like throwing a frisbee more mid-distance (yes, that was an activity of yesterday and hence comes the somewhat odd comparison)—it needs a bit of extra force, a somewhat contradictory shove downwards to lift up and not careen sideways and into the face of a small passerby puppy or the greenish death-water of a 17th-century moat. Effort to achieve effortlessness. Thus the hesitation at such an approach, and ultimately not achieving either.
Only to be followed by ska blasted at the highest volume a sticker-encrusted Mac can muster early on a pühapäev (Sunday). Why the hell not.
Edasi, вперёд...
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