a cup of hot oolong on the table in front of me. yellowish candlelight nearby and bluish rainlight outside. bossa nova strumming nearby and patternless noise of water drops outside. and my mind a thousand miles away, buried in the poetry of this Borges book, La Moneda De Hierro.
but, then, blogging about it does draw me out of the moment, doesn’t it? there’s some unspoken boundary between observer and participant, the one who experiences and the one who reminisces, that we cross when we decide to write about things.
oh well, i’ll forget about it. and get back to finding, or losing, this moment in time.