With the tune-in radio playing "Off the Wall" by MJ, I brew a fresh cuppa. Whether it was the weather calling it quits with the sun at the arrival of clouds in all its fluffiness and deception or the smell of beany goodness - the wind across the balcony seemed pleasingly enchanting to a summer display of cloudy playfulness. Pale and white, the clouds hardly made a promise of downpour.
With hardly a docket in mind, I wistfully hold a kindle edition of "The Edible Woman". Sunday is a bitch when it passes by. My pensive thoughts screeched to a halt with the turning around of my thoughts. If life was a perpetual vacation, with a lack of superintendence - would I have this love-hate relationship with a Sunday (a premature monday blue in its ways)? My work week is dearer to me than is a momentary fling with leisure. I crossly disagree with all the nature boys - nothing pushes you closer to nature than having yourself drowned in urbanly devoir.
What is a vacation without first working up a voracity for it? Monday is my day, in all my ebullience.
With hardly a docket in mind, I wistfully hold a kindle edition of "The Edible Woman". Sunday is a bitch when it passes by. My pensive thoughts screeched to a halt with the turning around of my thoughts. If life was a perpetual vacation, with a lack of superintendence - would I have this love-hate relationship with a Sunday (a premature monday blue in its ways)? My work week is dearer to me than is a momentary fling with leisure. I crossly disagree with all the nature boys - nothing pushes you closer to nature than having yourself drowned in urbanly devoir.
What is a vacation without first working up a voracity for it? Monday is my day, in all my ebullience.
