My imagined day

What shall I do today?

Lie on a bed of flowery sheets by an open window, reading some useless fluff that I'm paying no attention to. Really I'm only paying attention to cars and imagined butterflies, and that spring breeze slithering around me, sniffing me like a dog. Oh look, a platter of segmented fruit appears on the bedside table. My bedroom door is open to all, and people--sibings, friends, Malcolm and Ralph--filter in to say hello. They don't stay long, they know I don't want them to, but they provide stability. What music is playing? Doesn't matter, but it's there.

In reality:

It's October. And I'm happy. Right? No, yes, I am. I must be. I just found a hole-in-the-wall used bookstore that I've been meaning to find. I'd like to work in one of those one day. I think I would. And in reality today, I found no pasty shop. Where are they all hiding? Today, the real me is going to Westminster to hear that music my insides have been asking me for. Take me back to spring. I must stay here till spring. Today I want to be subjected to spring.