How is it, given all of the air and open space around us, when a gust of wind or a lick of a breeze gets up, the speck of grit or dust it carries manages to somehow land squarely in the eye?
Why is it, when time is short, if you slow down you seem to have more of it?
Is inspiration, if not acted upon, like a good dream forgotten?
It wasn’t change he was afraid of.He liked change, he embraced change, he told folk.He didn’t like sudden changeBut change over time, gradual change, he liked.He’d always been the same.
It’s an odd sensation, swimming in the rain. But that’s exactly what I had to do today. Well, I was actually swimming in the Lake and it was raining at the same time to be exact, but who’s counting? You feel as if you shouldn’t be in the water in the rain for one thing,…
The Mansionic Perspective