The sun is baking into my neck and shoulders. Winter is a time of uncomfortable extremes, one minute I am too cold (well perhaps it lasts longer than a minute, the coldness) and the next I am uncomfortably pressed in upon. Pressed in upon by the warmth.
Soft couch echoes thoughts of a younger, more naïve time, reminding me of just sitting and reading in the sunshine.
Cool afternoon dusk unavoidably follows, eradicating the silhouette of my baking neck and shoulders. The silhouette that is consistently displayed on the grey couch.
The grey couch exhibits a shadow.
The exhibition is well attended. There will be Champaign. There was no Champaign.
How sad.
I enjoy attending, no matter how ill-prepared the event planners are. In fact, fewer people mean more space on the grey couch for me. More space unladened with spills of Champaign.
Sequestered in amongst the grey couch cushions on the grey couch proper like an Egg Yolk.