It’s cloudy. That makes the grass look greener than usual. The sounds of car doors and garbage trucks and invisible airplanes boom out. I think I should have waited for my hair to dry.
Now it is time to pick up the notebook, to feel the stretch in my hand and that itchy part of my brain that senses an imminent movement of the plot. I just have to open the door and step out. I’m sure it’s a beautiful day.