You leave the window open, bravely, brazenly. So far it is warm enough, but this morning the radiator hissed in the cold. The cherry blossoms are almost here.
The strong scent of cigarette smoke wafts in, sounds from a nearby restaurant, some car's terrible music. Nothing keep them out, and you don't think you want them to stay on their side anyways. After a year of silence, perhaps we are ready to make a little noise.
Another exposure flares up, the phone lines ring hot with who has seen whom and what does this mean, do we have to stay home now? I go for a run instead, allergens knocking me half conscious in my scrambles from the bottom of the rock. It is what it is.
Perhaps that can be said about the entire year.
And infinite words about what it is not.
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