And so on a Sunday afternoon I upheaved myself from my mattress, propped on the floor - a sullen reminder that I've been in this new home for less than 72 hours, one that would continue unabated for another 9 months, but more on that later - my eyes wide awake, gut flora crawling and climbing through the esophagus, or maybe that's too dramatic, either way I remember very little from the vantage point of time, little save the bike ride - one I would begin doing five times a week - and the wandering around, finding the Cantor museum, smoking outside, a knot in my throat indicating the habit slowly seeping out of my body, and the soft grass I sat on, as I stared out at the new universe, hanging under a bright blue sky, zig zagged by planes from SJC, SFO, OAK, and other municipal airports (I imagine, I actually have never looked into it), the Rodin sculptures dripping with bronze, sweating dew, dotting the landscape in my view, and further along in front of the chapel, this decrepit monument, its blazing glory, a manifestation of the capitalistic roots of thought power, here, nestled in a bureau of IQ and government contracts, national funding, private donations and potential stunted by Instagram and Snapchat, a universe no more assailable than any other, simultaneously a bastion of respect - where I now found myself, shivering under a raincoat of impossibility, of self doubt and deference - the first day of my life, looking down upon me.
Non-smokingby @daniellucas | 249 words | 1🔥 | 77💌
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