written January 28, 2013

I can only hope to retain the rich, brick-soaked memories of this past weekend.  The memory of a well made, indie-filmed examination of domestic hell, sleeping in, and the opportunities to develop warm routine: our strolls through the narrow Soulard streets eastward, in the happiness of navigating small 19th century homes and alleyways, collecting the cheap farmer market offerings a prime Saturday pasta, sharing silly jock-ular evenings. Icy cold winds keeping us inside upon a chilled Sunday morning, the wait of sharing dog responsibilities, the inexpressible thrill of meeting romance with a heated passionate desire for time.  Being found attractive, and my embraces being valued.  Being valued exactly as I am, to which I have have hoped most to procure in good faith some time along the way of my travels if I was true and fortune shown.