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Friday again. It wasn’t such a bad week. Fall is here, the leaves are turning, and I get to wear sweaters. I have this huge collection of sweaters because I can’t resist buying them during off-season clearance sales.
Instead of sitting in the café and writing, I get my coffee to go and locate a nice spot under a tree. It’s hard to write without a table, but I manage to find a reasonably comfortable position. People walk by; some ignore me; some acknowledge me with a smile or an observation about the niceness of the day.
In my fantasy world, (one of them) I’m an artist, and I sit under the tree with my sketch pad and render something poignant. With line and shadow, I romanticize the office park’s grassy area. The blades of grass standing erect, the concrete walkways winding sensuously, almost ﬂuidly across the‘ lawn, the sunlight bouncing off the tinted windows and the brown brick building, angular, but not severe in its modernity, standing like a paperweight preventing the whole scene from blowing away. That’s what I’d draw. I can’t draw, but it is on my list of things to learn how to do. By the time I’m seventy, I should be completely self-actualized.This post was proofread by Grammarly