Fees. I have a window here, where today I observe the stormy foothills and imagine Catherine and Heathcliff running through the grasses: hems soaked and filthy, locks of damp black hair clinging to flushed cheeks. Lord, it is boring in fees.
I have been riding around on the bike Betsy gave me. I like how my heart feels when I ride it and my blood feels hotter in me somehow. Last night I was coming home from an opera chorus rehearsal, and the air felt almost as soft as a summer night. I noticed this at a stop light. A truck pulled up near me, and it smelled old and greasy, but it smelled good. I polished my glossy new bell with the palm of my hand.
Bicycling home on a warm spring's night in SLC's myriad of backstreets and thoroughfares, taking full advantage of the caresses of the wind like a 2-wheeled libertine. 'Tis nothing finer, n'est ce pas? Glad you've turned onto the pleasures of cycling during your episode home. If only the deluge of showers would let up just a tad.
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